The Phantom's Daughter
by Hester Gray's Garden
Summary: In which Erik fails to die of love, and a little match girl finds more than she bargained for in the cellars of the opera house. Leroux-based crossover with Hans Christian Anderson.
1. Dear Reader

Dear Reader,

Actually, this message is intended for the kind people who reviewed and followed this story when I began posting it last year. It's also a kind of holding screen for an as-yet-unwritten prologue (although I do keep asking myself, if the story makes sense without it, why exactly am I so set on writing the bugger?). Anyway. If you're a new reader, welcome, and please feel free to ignore this message and proceed to chapter one :)

For those with a dim recollection of the story so far, thank you for your patience, and my deepest apologies for the long hiatus, which came about through a chaotic combination of sleepless toddler, working full-time, and a flare up of a tiresome condition known as depression. We've since moved abroad; I'm somewhat less depressed, and the toddler is in nursery, so I have some precious free time on my hands. It seems only fair that I should use some of that time to make up for my previous failings.

In short, this story _will_ be finished. The aim is to finish a rough draft for NaNoWriMo and post chapters as I edit them into something coherent!

As always, thanks for reading and reviewing. It means the world.

Hester


	2. Chapter 1

I

He thought of the Sokushinbutsu: certain monks in Japan who could mummify themselves by sheer force of will.

It was during his time in Russia that he had first heard the stories. They travelled from throat to throat, along the Silk Road and the wagon trails of Samarkand, told by traders on their way to the great fair at Nizhny Novgorod.

They were nothing more than rumours, but Erik had been fascinated, and over the years he had collected every scrap of information that might help him to understand how such an extraordinary feat could be achieved. He had discovered that the process took several years. First, the monk spent one thousand days eating only nuts and seeds, taking part in a regimen of physical activity that stripped him of his body fat. For another thousand days he limited his diet further still, consuming bark, and drinking tea made from a tree-sap that rendered his body poisonous to maggots. Finally, he placed himself within a stone tomb, with only a small bell for company. He rang the bell at a particular time each day to inform his brothers that he remained alive, or at least capable of this small physical exertion. When the bell stopped ringing, the tomb was sealed, and after another thousand days his brothers opened it again to see if he had achieved his macabre goal.

He thought of these things as a distraction from the leitmotif which plagued his thoughts every day, from the moment his eyes opened to the moment that sleep reclaimed him.

He was not dead.

The fact was simple, unalterable, and it caused Erik to feel a great deal of anger at a time when he should have been purging his mind of all emotion. But how was it that his wasted body, which in all other respects resembled a corpse, continued to cling so perversely to life? He had given it no encouragement! His anger increased with every beat of the spiteful organ within his chest. Lying in the narrow coffin where he had spent the greater part of the last seven months, he listened to its indolent, indomitable thrum, growing ever more determined to win the battle of wills.

He knew there were other ways of achieving the desired outcome. Knew, for instance, of poisons that would stop his heart like a finger placed on a clock pendulum. Hanging would have the same effect, as would drowning, but he was too proud to resort to subterfuge. It should be enough that he willed it to happen!

Commanding himself to death, however, was proving more difficult in practice than in theory.

Eight months had passed since since the daroga had placed notice of his death in the newspaper. It had been agreed that Erik would send word when he felt the hour approaching; the announcement would summon Christine, who had promised to conduct his requiem mass, and return the ring which he had given her as a token of their engagement. Only then would she be free to marry her _other_ fiancé.

Honourable to the last, the daroga had of course fulfilled his part of the bargain. As for Christine? Eight months he had been dead and still she had not returned. It seemed unlikely that she ever would. False and fickle girl! And Erik had made it so easy, even digging his own grave at the base of the Communard's tunnel to spare her the trouble of rowing across the lake. He dug it close to the spring where she had fainted after their first encounter. How greedily he preserved the memory of her little head resting in his lap, and the exquisite softness of her hair, which he had even dared to stroke, ever so gently, with the tips of his abnormally long fingers.

For the first month he had lain in that damp hole and waited for her to come. At first he had thought of nothing but death, since it would have been very awkward if she had returned to find his corpse still animated, but when both death and the maiden had failed to materialise he had relocated his poor bones to the coffin in which he presently slept.

The only thing he had gained from his time in the grave had been a bad cold. Unfortunately, he had made a full recovery.

Damn his constitution!

He placated himself with the notion that Christine had probably wanted to come, but had been prevented from doing so by one of the Vicomte de Chagny's schemes. No doubt the little whelp had married her within hours of their departure from his lair. Of course she would have come if it had been her own choice: she was such a dear, sweet girl.

This would sustain him for a short time before darkness regained the upper hand. Then, he believed her capable of all manner of treacheries which he quickly admonished himself for thinking. Poor Christine! He could not blame her for wishing to avoid the sight of his decomposing corpse, although secretly he could not imagine it being any more hideous than the sight of his _living_ corpse, whose forehead she had actually deigned to kiss. Sometimes he wondered if he had imagined it. Not even his own mother had been able to stomach _that._

The soft chimes of the parlour clock interrupted his thoughts, and he counted the hours out of habit.

Ten... Eleven…

Twelve.

A perfect hour for the dead to rise.

He curled his fingers around the sides of the coffin and hoisted himself into a sitting position, ignoring the creak of his aging bones as he lowered himself down onto the floor. How old was he now - forty? Surely closer to fifty. It was a broad question, for in truth he was not even sure what day it was. Sunday, perhaps. He would have to investigate.

Lighting a candle, he moved through the rooms in its flickering sphere, paying no attention to the dust and ruins.

In the parlour he set down the candle and examined the clock on the mantelpiece. It was no ordinary timekeeping device, but a handsome antique in brass and walnut wood, which measured the days, months, and even the movements of the Zodiac in addition to the hours and minutes.

According to a small dial in its left-hand corner, it was Friday morning, just after midnight.

He had an appointment to keep.

The walls of his parlour were crowded with paintings and prints. One of them depicted a Persian tower, which swung open on a concealed hinge to reveal a mechanism, complex to prying eyes, but quite simple to operate if one knew its secret. He placed his fingers on certain depressions and turned it like a combination lock. A moment later there was a click, following by a deep rumbling from beneath his feet. A pivot was turning, and with it his torture chamber, a replica of the octagonal, mirrored room which had caused so much terror during his days in Mazandaran. He waited until the sound had stopped before he opened the door and stepped inside. A spiral staircase had replaced the torture chamber, leading up to a seemingly impenetrable stone wall.

But nothing was what it seemed. Even in its ruined state, his house was a magician's box of tricks.

Another deft touch and the stones slid back to reveal an ordinary storeroom. The opening was concealed by an old backcloth, affording him cover in the event of someone else being in the room. This was unlikely, as its principal function was the storage of props that were no longer used. It was also rumoured to be haunted. Earlier that year the body of a scene shifter named Joseph Buquet had been found hanging between the backcloth and a scenery flat. An unfortunate business, although Erik had little sympathy for the man. Curiosity had driven him to go looking for things that were none of his business, and as a result he had fallen into the torture chamber. Erik had returned to a gruesome scene. He had been obliged to winch the man's substantial carcass back into the cellar, where he had staged a suicide in hope of discouraging any further intruders. Rumours of Buquet's unquiet spirit had begun to circulate within weeks; Erik had helped them along a little, using his talent for ventriloquism.

As a result, he was fairly certain that only one person, besides himself, dared enter the room now, and _she_ was not scheduled to return until tomorrow.

In spite of this he moved cautiously, peering into every corner as he emerged from behind the backcloth. There was no need for a candle. A dull, reddish glow emanated through the warped floorboards from the furnace room below, casting its gloomy light over a theatrical graveyard. Erik's gaze travelled over storage crates and racks of moth-eaten costumes, into every nook and cranny, before settling upon the door with such intensity that it seemed he could see through it into the corridor beyond. Finally, satisfied that no-one else was lurking in the shadows, he moved to a nearby crate and lifted its lid. Resting upon an assortment of hats was a small wicker basket. He swung it over one arm, shut the lid, and hastened back to the secret doorway.

A few moments later the stones slid back into place, leaving no trace of their disturbance.

When it had become clear that he was not, in fact, dying of a broken heart, Erik had been forced to make arrangements for the dull practicalities of living. His needs were minimal, as he had no intention of living for any length of time, but still, a small amount of sustenance was necessary if he were to proceed in a dignified manner. And so he had contacted Madame Giry. In the past she had been very useful, attending his box, running his errands, and helping to embezzle the directors out of twenty thousand francs a month. She had, of course, been an unwitting accomplice to the latter. Despite his deception it had not been difficult to engage her services again. She was poor and he was wealthy.

Their new arrangement was simple. Performances took place at the Opéra on four nights of the week: Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. Madame Giry delivered her basket of provisions after the performance on Wednesday evening. He collected his basket and left payment on Thursday, adding his list for the week ahead on Sunday. She collected this after Monday's performance, which left two full shopping days before she completed the cycle on the following Wednesday.

He relied on the astronomical clock to keep to this schedule, servicing it fastidiously to ensure that it always kept perfect time; and there was always at least a day between Madame Giry leaving the room and Erik entering it, which minimised the possibility of them crossing paths in person.

One could not be too careful these days.

Smoothing out a copy of that week's list, which he kept in his breast pocket, he began to unpack the basket, crossing through each item as he went along. There was bread and blue cheese, a small bottle of red ink, three hoggets of merino wool, five glass eyes in various shades of blue, and a packet of modelling wax. He paused when he came to the final item on the list, and frowned.

_Figs._

Erik was very fond of figs. It would not have been an exaggeration to say that a perfectly ripe fig was his sole remaining pleasure in life. This made Madame Giry's recent habit of forgetting to buy them as unfortunate as it was baffling, as he felt that his instructions on the matter had been exceptionally clear. He very much hoped that tonight would mark a return to form.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled the final item out of the basket: a brown paper bag that should, in theory, have contained no less than seven figs. But instead of their smooth and slightly pliant flesh, his fingers closed around a small bundle tied with frayed and filthy string.

He pulled out the matches and stared at them in consternation.

This was the third time she had presented him with such an offering. Had the wretched woman forgotten how to read? He had clearly stated that he required seven figs, not another box of matches. He had enough of those to burn down the entire quartier! He had even considered that the word 'fig' might be the name of some new brand of matches, taking great pains to emphasise that he was in fact referring to the fruit of the plant of the genus known as _ficus_, which he thought would have made further confusion impossible for anyone with at least half a brain - and yet she continued to wilfully misinterpret his demands.

Well, he would have no more of it!

Snatching up the bottle of red ink, Erik stalked into the library, seated himself at the desk, and penned the woman a stern missive.

_Madame,_

_Please find enclosed the twenty seven francs that are owed to you in payment for last week's provisions, in addition to the usual compensation for your trouble._

_You will note that I have not included the two francs due in respect of the figs which you have again neglected to purchase, despite the polite reminder in my last letter._

_Please ensure that this oversight is not repeated._

_O.G._

When the letter was complete he thrust it into the empty basket, which he then carried upstairs and threw into the hat crate with more force than was necessary.

Afterwards, he wanted to leave the opera house. He wanted to go to her wretched little apartment on the rue de Provence and set fire to it. He wanted her to see exactly what happened when he had matches to spare.

But Erik did none of these things.

Instead, he returned to the library and sank into a chair by the fire, releasing his anger in a slow, controlled breath.

It felt like decades since he had last worked himself into such a fury. The effort was exhausting, and whatever the reason for their breakdown in communication, a surfeit of matches hardly excused his temper. He was, after all, preparing himself for eternity. What use were figs? They only showed his attachment to things which should have no meaning now, to the ephemera of life.

His gaze fell on a small brass samovar that sat upon the mantelpiece. A souvenir from his time in Russia, used for the brewing of their foul, idiosyncratic tea.

If he recalled correctly, the Sokushinbutsu of Japan made _their_ tea from the sap of the urushi tree. Yes, that was it. A curious substance, more commonly used in the production of the small lacquered boxes, inlaid with mother of pearl, which had been so popular in France since the trade embargo had been lifted. No doubt the pure sap would be difficult, if not impossible, for Madame Giry to procure, but if he were to get his hands on one of those lacquered boxes, he was confident that he could find some way of extracting it, and thus put the samovar to something more than ornamental use. It would not be suicide to ingest such a substance, he told himself. It would something noble. A ritual of sorts, tidier than disembowelling.

Fatigue began to cloud his thoughts. He rested his head against the antimacassar, letting them wander. In pursuit of their goal, the Sokushinbutsu starved themselves to become living corpses, a state Erik had already attained, and just as they sealed themselves into their tombs, so had Erik destroyed most of the secret entrances to his underground lair, beneath the opera house which the press had once derisively called _Garnier's mausoleum._

More than this, it would solve the problem of the figs, for if he was to have any hope of achieving his goal then he would have to suppress such appetites, detach from worldly desires, and become an empty vessel.

Yes, he thought, that would suit him very well.

He closed his eyes, and slept.

* * *

><p>In dreams he travelled as the traders had done, along the Silk Road and the wagon trails of Samarkand, across the landscape of his past. He was flying somehow, skimming desert sands and poppy fields before soaring above the battlements of the palace he had built for the Shah's mother at Mazandaran, plunging through the mouth of a human-headed bull, down into the palace itself, through pleasure gardens and lattice-walled harems, into the Hall of Mirrors, where he saw a figure in a richly bejewelled mask reflected ten thousand times and more.<p>

She sat upon the dias, the one they called the Khanom, watching his approach from her fan-backed throne. Two men stood beside her. The daroga, like a statue carved in ebony, and a European, tall and gaunt with an aquiline nose and cold, cruel eyes. There was something about those eyes. Erik knew him, but could not immediately put a name, or any specific details, to the face. He felt a gathering unease at being summoned like this, at being put on the back foot.

"Did you think I would not find her?" the Khanom asked him.

He did not understand. Careful, always careful not to show weakness, which she would strike at like a snake, he feigned nonchalance. "Find her?"

"Now, now Erik - don't be slippery. You forgot that I have eyes everywhere." Her smile was slow poison. "Poor little bird. Tell me, now that her wings are broken, how will she fly away?"

She was talking about Christine. Something curdled in the pit of his stomach, but his lips - the only part of his face the mask did not cover - remained a firm, impassive line. It had to be a bluff. Christine had never been to Persia. Christine did not even belong to this time. But then, neither did the European. His gaze slid discreetly to the daroga, whose jade eyes were steeped in sadness. Best play along. He licked his lips, ready to conjure a reply, but the Khanom was already bored with him, inclining her chin toward the European and drawling her next question.

"What do you think, Delacroix?"

Delacroix looked down his nose at Erik, with a cold sneer that made him feel very small and weak.

"It was for her own good," he said.

And then Erik saw the red line around the Delacroix's neck. Biting, bleeding. And he realised what had troubled him about his eyes, which had an odd sheen, like liquid mercury.

Delacroix was dead, and had been for some time.

He stumbled backwards. He had to find to find Christine, wherever she was, before the Khanom found them. But the Khanom was dead too, was she not? They were all dead. Roaring water filled his ears, and the figures on the dias tilted and split, became reflected infinities. He was lost in a maze of mirrors. Alone now, he hammered against the glass with desperate fists. It was closing in on him. Eight sides to the room. Eight sides… he realised that he was not in the throne room at all, but had somehow become trapped in his own torture chamber. He had fallen for his own illusions!

There was still time to save Christine. His fingers smoothed and skimmed until they found the telltale seam that joined the mirrors, following it down to the pressure point. A tap was all it took. The pane swung open and he slipped into the darkness. There was a clamminess to the air, and when he reached out, his palms touched cold, damp stone.

Someone was singing. A beautiful voice, a voice he knew better than his own...

He must be in the Communard's tunnel. But how? It did not matter now. All he had to do was keep climbing and he would reach another mirror, the one that concealed the entrance to Christine's dressing room.

But when he stepped back into the light he found himself in a different room entirely. The curtains were drawn, and a candle burned on a chest of marble-topped drawers. An odd feeling settled around his shoulders. A feeling that he had been gone for many years, like Rip van Winkle, swallowed up by a fairy ring and forgotten. He was supposed to find something, or someone. Who was it? Had they lit the candle? Everything coated in a thin layer of dust, the wallpaper rotted and hanging in shreds.

In the bed lay a skeleton. It was so small and shrunken in death that at first he had not seen it. And above the bed, a painting of a tall, gaunt man. He looked away, unable to meet the man's gaze. He looked at the skeleton again. It was dressed in a woman's clothes that were at least half a century out of fashion. A plain gold ring glittered on the third finger of its left hand, and it was clutching something, a scrap of fabric.

He stepped closer, and saw that it was a little mask, small enough to fit a child.

_Someone was singing…_

* * *

><p>It was dark when he woke up. The candle had gone out, and it took him several minutes to remember where he had left it. Ah, yes. The bureau. There were more candles in the left hand drawer to replace the stub, and thanks to Madame Giry there was also an abundant supply of matches. He struggled out of the chair. His old bones made their usual protest, especially the vertebrae in his neck, which crackled as he shook his head to expel the remnants of his dream.<p>

A few fumbling moments later the candle was lit, and he shuffled into the parlour to read the time on the astronomical clock.

He had been asleep for almost four days.

Time slipped by so quickly down here, so this information did not surprise him, but it was disorientating. He stepped back and blinked owlishly about the room. Dust and ruins, he thought vaguely, the pictures leaning forward on their chains like eavesdroppers. At times like this it was difficult to believe that he had actually travelled to the the places he dreamed about. The dreams themselves were so vivid that he might have mistaken them for real memories, when really they were more likely to have sprung from a combination of vivid brush-strokes, and the whispering of gilt-edged volumes that winked at him from the library shelves, playing tricks on a mind already weakened by solitude.

For all he knew there had been no Khanom, no palace in Mazandaran, and the skeleton in the ivy-choked chateau might have escaped from the pages of a fairy tale.

Perhaps Christine, too, had been no more than a figment.

He squinted at the clock again. It was Sunday, which meant that he should leave a shopping list in the hat crate for Madame Giry. There seemed little point in leaving another when he had already slept half the week away, but it was important to keep to the schedule. If he did not then he risked arousing the old woman's curiosity, and in his experience, curiosity led unfortunate events.

Taking a sheet of paper from the bureau, he scribbled down a few items that he recalled from his previous list, and grudgingly made his way up to the third cellar.

A letter was waiting for him in the hat crate.

_Monsieur Fantôme_

_I am very sorry about leaving out the figs. It has much aggrieved me, although I must say that it is strange because I clearly recollect buying them. I think I must have got my thoughts in a tangle if monsieur takes my meaning. I have been run ragged this week with the tenants asking me do all sorts of little things and I can only think I must have given one of them your figs by accident. I very much hope that you can accept my most humblest assurances that it will not happen again. _

_I have taken particular care over the figs this time and I hope that you will find them to your liking._

_Yours respectfully,_

_Clementine Giry._

_PS. My little Meg does very well as the leader of the row and minds herself to keep respectable and ladylike although she is a silly girl in many ways. We are both very grateful for your kind words to the directors._

He looked in the hat crate again and spied a paper bag in the hollow of a Roman helmet. Inside, as promised, were seven ripe figs.

A queer feeling rose in his chest. Snatching the figs, he stalked back down to his lair. Ridiculous woman! What did she mean by wittering on about Meg? He was not some maiden aunt anxiously following the career of his sister's prodigious spawn - and he had certainly not been putting in good words with the directors!

Then came the memory, fluttering like a moth at the back of his mind. Several years ago, when the Opéra had not long opened, he had left a letter on the ledge of his box for Madame Giry to find. It contained a list of all the young ladies associated with the Opéra who had gone on to make profitable marriages - sopranos engaged to dukes and the like. He had insinuated that, if she played her cards well enough, in a few years her own daughter, a skinny little ballet rat that no man in his right mind would glance twice at, would become an empress. It was a lie, of course, a ridiculous ruse to ensure her loyalty. He could no more divine the future than he could stroll down the Boulevard des Capucines without his mask. Surely she did not still believe it?

That feeling again, gnawing at his sternum.

Guilt.

Poor Madame Giry. Poor Clementine! How strange it was to know her name after all these years. He recalled the tone of his previous letter with no small amount of shame. It was he that should be apologising, not the other way around! But how to make amends. Before this sorry business was over, he would have to ensure that she was properly looked after. A cottage in the country and a generous stipend that meant she would never have to scrub another stairwell. A house, even. Somewhere affluent and peaceful. The coast, perhaps. Twenty thousand francs a month, shrewdly invested, had ensured that he was a wealthy man, and it seemed only fitting that Madame Giry should have a share in these profits. She had, after all, helped him to acquire them.

His conscience remained unsatisfied. Seeking a distraction, he abandoned the figs on top of the pianoforte and set off in the direction of his bedchamber.

It was time to visit his lady.


	3. Chapter 2

II

As always, she was waiting for him.

His other Christine.

His other Christine did not faint at the sight of his face or shrink from his touch. Indeed, he could even take her into his arms and she would remain smiling and compliant — not that he would ever take such liberties! No, his other Christine must be accorded the same respect as her human counterpart.

Oh, but Erik had been neglecting her lately! A mouse had taken advantage of his absence by nesting within the honey-coloured silk of her wig; closer inspection revealed that the same rodent had also nibbled away her left earlobe. Erik released a soft moan of despair at this discovery. Removing the head and cradling it like the most delicate of ornaments, he brought it to his work table to get a better look at the damage, tilting it gently beneath the gas lamp until he was satisfied that the damage was confined to the left ear. Her pretty nose had not been eaten!

Allowing himself to breathe, he placed the head upon a pillow and went to fetch the items that Madame Giry had lately procured for him. The merino hoggets would form the swell of her breasts, and it was with trembling hands that he set them aside for the time being. The eyes he would need presently. First, though, he would need the wax in order to repair her damaged earlobe.

He opened the packet and broke a piece off, softening it between his fingers before he set to work. Hunched over the small table he shaped a new earlobe quickly and carefully; speed was important as he needed the wax to remain pliable without becoming elastic. Once it was attached, he drew back slightly to admire his handiwork. To the untrained eye the effect was quite impressive. In fact, one might go so far as to call it worthy of a place in Madame Tussaud's esteemed collection.

Oddly enough it had been Christine herself - the real Christine - who had given Erik the idea of making a waxwork. On the terrible night when he had attempted to force her into marriage, she had naively likened the interior of his torture chamber to a display at the Musée Grévin, the city's newly opened wax museum. In the weeks that followed her departure, Erik had remembered this comment, and a plan had formed.

Of course it was not as good as the real thing, but it kept him company.

For a moment he entertained himself with the notion of finding employment in the studios of Grévin or Tussaud. His mask would not bother anyone there! He could even make a new one out of wax, and present himself as both artist and model - a walking advertisement! A bubble of glee rose in his chest at such a thought, and he felt almost like his old self.

But his giddiness was short-lived. His other Christine might be up to Madame Tussaud's standards, but she hardly satisfied his own. The eyes, for example, were not exactly true to life. Christine's eyes had been the deep, pellucid blue of the great Norwegian lakes that one saw in paintings. The present ones were far too pale and insipid-looking. Reaching up through her neck and into the hollow of her skull, he plucked the offending eyes from their sockets and considered the selection that Madame Giry had brought him. China-blue, azure, lapis lazuli, forget-me-not. None of these were quite right. The last pair looked promising, though. He fixed them in place. They would suffice until he found something more suitable.

Despite the feeling of dissatisfaction that still lingered, he rose and carried the head back to its body, fixing it in place and standing back to consider the full affect.

His smile slowly faded. The resemblance was almost uncanny, but Erik now realised that it was missing a vital, and unobtainable, ingredient. It was Christine's spirit, not her beauty, that had captured his heart. How could he ever hope to recreate that? Oh, he could create the illusion of life, just as Madame Tussaud had done when she created a model of the Comtesse du Barry. Sleeping Beauty, they called her, reclining on a chaise longue. While the real Comtesse du Barry had lost her head during the Terror and lay dismembered, like so many others, beneath the soil of the Madeleine cemetery, her effigy in London remained intact and seemingly immortal, thanks to a mechanism that made her chest rise and fall in artificial slumber. By candlelight the illusion was said to be eerily convincing. Perhaps he could invent a similar mechanism, but even if he did, his other Christine would never be more than a charming automaton.

Reaching out, he traced the contours of her face with his long fingers. Her waxen skin felt like that of a newly embalmed corpse. At any other time he would have found this darkly amusing, but now it filled his chest with a terrible ache.

_Oh, Christine…_

He had never intended to fall in love with the girl. How could he? Love was for ordinary people, with ordinary faces, who lived in ordinary houses made of ordinary bricks. He was a mountebank living in a house with a false bottom. He did not even have a face!

At first he saw her as little more than a broken instrument. A project, to relieve his boredom. He would take a passable, uninspired voice and transform it into something magnificent, just as many years ago, when he had taken apart a clavichord in his father's chateau and put it back together again, hoping to improve its discordant sound. And if he was being entirely honest it was more than that. In the solitude of his lair he had begun to work on his own compositions, inspired by the operas that drifted down from above, and he harboured a growing ambition to see his creation realised upon Garnier's stage. Christine's voice would serve as a perfect conduit for his talents: a means of achieving the fame that his face denied him.

And when she had the world at her feet, she would announce a great concert dedicated to her maestro's work, and he would be victorious at last.

Her feelings were of no consequence. She was merely an instrument that he could easily replace if it played the wrong notes. Sopranos were hardly in short supply and besides, she did not even want to be there. He could well imagine her retiring to some nunnery to live out her days in an endless litany of prayers for her wretched father, whose death he learnt was to blame for her listlessness. He might have chosen any one of the chorus girls. Christine had simply come to his attention first, and her childish belief in the Angel of Music afforded him a useful proxy through which to communicate without having to reveal his true face. After convincing her that he had come down from heaven to enable her to discover the supreme joys of eternal art, he began to give her lessons in her dressing room each morning, speaking to her through the two-way mirror that concealed the entrance to the Communard's tunnel.

For several weeks he felt nothing but a vague contempt at her gullibility. But as their lessons progressed he began to find that childlike trust strangely affecting, and her eyes upon the glass, so full of esteem and affection, ignited something wonderful within his chest.

Of course, it did not last. A few months later she confided that she had seen her childhood sweetheart, the Vicomte de Chagny, watching from his family box. The rush of jealousy he felt upon hearing this had been suffocating. Terrified of what such a reaction must mean, he had tried to end their lessons, knowing that things had gone too far; but Christine had renounced the boy and assured him that her heart belonged to him alone! Even after she had discovered that he was not the Angel and had seen his true face she insisted that she was in love with him. She had burned his mask, and said that she would marry him in the Madeleine church, that they would live in an ordinary house made of ordinary bricks and play cards and go for walks in the park on Sundays - _Kyrie! Kyrie! Kyrie eleison!_

He paused, and looked doubtfully at his other Christine.

Had she really said those things?

Perhaps he had only imagined them. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness, but he recognised the futility of such a gesture. The one who deserved his prostrations was gone now, and he hoped very much that the Vicomte was helping her to forget what had happened here, in the house by the lake.

Yes, he remembered now.

In truth the poor girl had been petrified. Not of his face, in the end, but of something much worse. The true deformity was internal. His face merely warned of the monster within, the monster that was unleashed when he discovered that Christine did not really love him after all, that she was so terrified of his affections that she planned to elope with the Vicomte, to whom she was secretly engaged. He had flown into a murderous rage. Desperate not to lose Christine, he had taken her prisoner and presented her with a terrible ultimatum: marry him, or he would blow up the entire opera house with everyone in it, including her precious fiancé, whom he had managed to trap in his torture chamber.

Being a good girl, Christine had agreed. She would have agreed to anything to save her boy.

Of course Erik had not expected a real marriage. Tragic heroines were inclined to kill themselves on their wedding nights, and Christine had already demonstrated her intentions by spending a good part of the evening attempting to beat her own brains out against a certain corner of her bedroom wall. He was content with this. At least be together in death. It was only when she had offered to become his _living_ wife that Erik had realised the full horror of what he had been about to do. Taking advantage of this rare moment of sanity, he had released the Vicomte from the torture chamber, and allowed the young lovers to leave.

She had kissed him then, chastely, and left him with the promise that she would return to bury his remains when the time came.

Such events weighed heavily upon his conscience. Twisting his hands together, he turned from his other Christine and maundered through the empty rooms like a sleepwalker, barely conscious of his surroundings until he came to the parlour. He knew that he was beginning to lose time. It was hard to measure down here, even with the aid of his mantelpiece clock. He paused in front of it, listening to the way it ticked in tandem with his heart. They bent to the same rhythm now. Sometimes he felt as though it was the only thing keeping him alive.

If he were to stop his faithful windings…

He could not bear this isolation much longer. Eight months had passed since he had last ventured from his lair, unless one counted a single trip to the Rue de Provence to convince Madame Giry to resume her position, slipping a scrawled and wheedling letter beneath her door. He had not even spoken to the woman. He had not spoken to anybody. Eight months could have been eight years, eight decades. Days passed in the space of a short nap and he found himself checking the clock repeatedly, unable to fix the passage of time in his mind, taking absurd pleasure in his nocturnal forays into the third cellar, where Madame Giry's basket provided him with proof that the world still turned.

And now, as his gaze slid from the mantelpiece and into the fire's grey embers, he came to a disturbing realisation. He was quite certain that if Christine were to return to keep her promise and find him still alive, he would not be able to let her go a second time.

That must not be allowed to happen.

But how could he prevent it?

A thought unfurled at the back of his mind. It was not a new thought. In fact, it was one that he had examined and discarded many times during the long months of his confinement.

He returned to the desk in the library, where his Punjab lasso lay in a small and dusty drawer. It had lain unused for many months, but he removed it now and drew it speculatively through his fingers. It did not look particularly deadly. A simple length of catgut of the kind one used to string a lute or a violin; but this one had claimed many lives since it had first been put to use in an enclosed courtyard of the Khanom's palace. That first murder had been committed in self-defence. As for the others… He could not remember how many the Khanom had ordered him to dispatch. It seemed like hundreds, now that he felt their weight pressing upon his chest.

And the killings had not just been on the Khanom's orders. There was Joseph Buquet to consider, and the poor woman who had the misfortune to sit beneath a badly secured chandelier, and the Comte de Chagny. Perhaps they had not died by his hand but he had certainly done nothing to prevent their deaths; and despite the promise he had made to the daroga on his escape from Persia, he had committed at least one murder in cold blood.

_Delacroix._

Shuddering at the memory, he carried the lasso back into his bedchamber, coming to a halt in front of his other Christine. She watched in mute anticipation as his gaze rose to the ceiling. A hook could be fixed there with no great difficulty. He glanced down at his other Christine, anxious for her approval. Her lips were curved into a slight, conspiratorial smile, as if she had guessed his thoughts and given her consent to the plan that was forming in his mind.

It seemed fitting that he should use the Punjab lasso. Perhaps it was not quite as noble as the Sokushinbutsu's method, but there was a sort of poetic justice to the idea of dispatching himself with the very weapon he had used on so many of his victims, and in doing so he would protect Christine from the possibility of suffering any further harm at his hands.

He smiled, gazing into the depths of her vacant blue eyes.

Soon they would be together for eternity.

* * *

><p>The next few days were entirely devoted to preparation. These things had to be done properly. Erik had always been a stickler for etiquette, especially where suicide was concerned.<p>

First there was the manikin to consider. His other Christine must look her best.

Now that her face was complete, he turned his attention to the rest of her body. He used the remainder of the wax to make her delicate hands and feet, shaping her fingernails from shards of pearl that had begun their lives as necklace beads. He had been forced to improvise with most of the materials. For instance, her torso and limbs were made of wood and metal butchered from his pipe organ, whose disgorged remains now lay in a far corner of the room. It had been a shame to destroy the organ, which had taken him many months to build, but he took comfort from the idea of creating one instrument from the corpse of another.

Over this hard, unyielding skeleton he draped merino and linen; merino for the padding and linen stitched in such a way as to suggest the softness of the female form. He did not think it wise to concern himself with precise anatomical details. To do so might give rise to ungentlemanly emotions, and he must take care to always act like a gentleman where Christine was concerned, something he had not always done in the past.

It was difficult to remember this as he used the last of the merino to create the gentle swell of her breasts. As soon as he was finished he draped his opera cloak about Christine's torso to protect her modesty.

Of course, she needed something grander to wear…

Erik had bought the real Christine several gowns during her time with him, but they were all hung neatly in the wardrobe of her room. He could not bring himself to go in there. Only a husband had the right to enter a woman's room without first asking for permission. That left his mother's clothes. He had taken them out of Christine's wardrobe and put them in his dressing room, as he had not wanted to arouse her curiosity. Christine really was most dreadfully curious.

He went into the closet and examined her gowns, which he quickly realised were entirely unsuitable. Christine might have been slender, but these gowns would have been snug on a girl of twelve. Had his mother really been so tiny? He remembered her being frail - almost birdlike - but she had always been in bed, shrouded in blankets and propped up by pillows, making her true proportions difficult to estimate. Besides, her clothes were too old-fashioned, their lace turned brittle with age.

Running his finger along one ivory sleeve, he suddenly had a marvellous idea.

He would make her a gown!

A wedding gown, more beautiful than any bride had ever worn! Yes… and when the time came, he would imagine that they were standing before the altar in the Madeleine church, about to exchange their vows.

There was no time to waste. He would need buttons, yards of silk, metres of taffeta. And ribbons - he must not forget ribbons! Pulling out all of his mother's clothes, he picked apart their seams, salvaging anything of use, which turned out to be very little. Most of the fabric was close to disintegrating. He would have to ask Madame Giry for assistance. Returning to the library, he pulled out a few pieces of paper and wrote down his requirements, which seemed enough to clean out an entire haberdashery. He knew that Madame Giry would not be able to afford such expensive items, and so he placed several crisp hundred franc notes inside the envelope, which he took upstairs and placed inside the empty basket. It occurred to him that Madame Giry might become suspicious of the fact that his list did not contain his usual request for victuals, so he hurried back upstairs and added a few extra items in his almost illegible scrawl. Bread, cheese…

Figs.

He forced himself not to dwell on the business of the figs. If he was to die with any semblance of peace, he must think only of Christine, and remove his mind from all other earthly desires.

Time seemed to slow to an excruciating, glacial pace.

He filled it with further preparations for the wedding, eking out his limited resources as best he could. Deciding that he might as well put the matches to some use, he gathered up all the candles he could find and brought them into his bedchamber, along with any flowers that were still in possession of their heads. They rustled as he set them in place. Suddenly realising what might happen if a candle were to set fire to the room after the wedding, he hurried down to the Communard's dungeon and carried out a minute inspection of every crevice, until he was satisfied that not a single grain of gunpowder remained. It would somewhat defeat the object of protecting the world from his fiendishness if his death were to cause a deadly explosion.

Wednesday arrived. Everything was ready except the gown. He had arranged Christine's hair in a suitably intricate style, and he had even set out a little wedding breakfast on the worktable. Figs, of course, and the bottle of Tokay he had opened for Christine on the first night she had spent in his lair. He had been saving it for a special occasion.

Soon, there was nothing left but to wait until the following night. It was excruciating, hearing the clock strike midnight in the knowledge that Madame Giry was delivering her basket, but he must keep to the schedule. Thursday was collection night. He could not let himself grow careless when he was so close to achieving his goal.

He went into the library and took down the seventh volume of _A Natural History of the World, _hoping for a distraction, but its words passed through his mind without making any impression upon it. He had never known a clock to tick so loudly; the chimes were enough to bring down the walls of Jericho!

It occurred to him, as the clock struck one, that every hour wasted put the real Christine in danger. Suppose she were to come before he finished the dress?

When the clock struck two, his mind was made up. He hastened upstairs and, after lingering behind the backcloth for a moment, he crept over to the hat crate, where he was delighted to find that Madame Giry had followed his instructions to the letter. Several parcels of fabric sat alongside his usual provisions. He idled a moment, running his hands over the rustling tissue paper, examining a square of exquisitely wrought Belgian lace.

In among the parcels was another bag of figs. She was too good to him! He reached inside with a fond smile, thinking that he might take one as a snack for the journey back to his chamber, wondering as he did so if all grooms felt this queer combination of joy and restlessness in the days approaching their wedding?

His fingers closed around something wet and brittle.

Matches.

He removed a handful and stared at them. A moment passed. He did not react with anger or surprise but with utter stillness, like the hare when it senses the hawk that hunts it.

Madame Giry had not done this.

A chill crept over him. Someone else knew he was here. Whoever it was, they had interfered with his basket in the short hours between Madame Giry placing it there and his coming to collect it. They had taken his figs and had, for some unfathomable reason, replaced them with a bundle of sodden matches. Not once, but four times!

He cocked one ear and listened again. Unless the thief were holding their breath, they had already fled the scene of the crime.

Who were they, and what the devil did they mean by stealing his food? Surely there were easier ways of acquiring sustenance! Steal it from an epicerie, from a market stall, from an unguarded picnic - but who in their right mind would sneak into the bowels of an opera house to steal figs from a retired ghost?

There must be more to it than that. Persia sprang to mind; the Khanom had been fond of surreal tricks. But she was long dead, and the daroga believed that Erik had followed in her footsteps. It did not seem likely that the Roma had tracked him down after all these years. And as for the matches… during his time as the Khanom's executioner he had never dabbled in fire, and he could not think of anyone he had offended for whom they might have special significance.

Unless it was someone he did not know - in all likelihood a thrillseeker bent on tracking down the infamous Opéra Ghost, or one his many incarnations. It would not be the first time. He remembered sticks poked through bars, the laughter of drunken men.

There was a noise behind him. Erik spun around, scattering the matches in a startled arc.

They were still here!

The chill in his veins hardened to ice. Never mind that he was actively preparing for death - he intended to meet his maker on equal terms, not smoked out liked a rat for someone else's amusement. He was no longer a sideshow freak! A cold and deadly rage began to overtake him. Instinctively, he reached for the Punjab lasso, his gaze travelling over the assorted crates and pieces of abandoned scenery.

The sound came again, this time more distinctly. A stifled cough. Silently, he closed in on its source: a costume rack at the far side of the room. The costumes themselves were slightly mussed, and a familiar scent hung about them.

Figs.

Another soft sound; fabric against fabric.

He lunged forward, wrenching the costumes apart. There was a squeak of alarm and the thief darted between his legs, scuttling beetle-wise toward the door. In three strides he was upon it. Before it had a chance to stand he dragged it up by the throat, smothering its terrified scream with the other hand. He would not use the Punjab lasso, not yet. First he would make it sing its secrets.

A few moments was all it took. A few moments for the thief to stop struggling and slacken in his arms, almost weightless. Odd. It should not have lost consciousness so quickly. He could feel its bones, thin as matchsticks, beneath his fingers, and with a sharp intake of breath he realised what that meant. Shocked, he flung it away, watching in horror as it crumpled to the ground like so many twigs.

He had made a terrible mistake.


	4. Chapter 3

III

Erik was pacing.

He was particularly good at pacing, having had much occasion to practice during his tenure as Christine's angel, although this time the creature on his drawing room rug was most emphatically not a beautiful soprano.

It was a little girl.

At least, he thought it was a little girl. Upon closer inspection he was not entirely sure. Little girls were supposed to be dimpled and angelic, with rosy cheeks and golden curls. This one looked more like a flea or a crushed spider, with its matted black hair and brittle limbs tangled up in filthy, soaking rags. They had left a wet imprint on the arms and chest of his shirt and he felt a rising panic as it permeated the fabric. He had taken such care to seal himself away from humanity, and now his home - his very _skin_ - was contaminated by it!

He stopped pacing and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he repeated the mantra that he had composed as he carried the girl down from the third cellar.

_He must remain calm. He must remain calm. The girl would be safe as long as he remained calm. _

After a moment, he exhaled, feeling slightly more rational. He opened his eyes and looked down at the girl. Beneath the grime, he could see that her skin was regaining its colour, which was reassuring. She had been so still and pale when he had first placed her on the rug that he had been worried she might expire. He had not wanted that. However, her recovery posed problems of its own. He was in no fit state to entertain guests, especially ones he had just attempted to strangle, but at the same time he could not simply let her go now that she knew his secret. He had gone to considerable trouble to convince both the management and the constabulary that the Opéra Ghost was no more. Suppose she raised the alarm? And he could not very well deal with her in the usual fashion. He might be a monster, but his crimes had never run to infanticide.

That left him with only one option. He would have to keep her prisoner.

Damn women and their infernal curiosity!

He resumed his furious pacing. Erik did not _want _another prisoner. He had tried that once before and it had turned out very badly for all concerned. All he wanted was to be left alone so that he could die with some semblance of dignity. Was that really too much to ask? He paused, dismally certain of the answer, and at the same moment there was a noise from the rug.

The creature was stirring. In preparation, he drew himself up to his full height, making no attempt to retrieve his mask from the table. Let her see him in all his hideous glory! There would be no Angel of Music this time, no sugar-coated subterfuge! Let her see exactly what kind of monster she was dealing with!

He watched with cool detachment as her prone form stirred and subsided and then stirred again. She grew still for a moment, no doubt becoming aware of her surroundings, and then pushed herself up into a sitting position. Erik gritted his teeth, steeling himself for the inevitable scream.

It never came.

Oddly, the girl did not immediately notice his looming presence. Instead, she gazed into the fire with an detached, vacant expression.

He cleared his throat, and she looked at him.

Although his wretched face was on full display, she still did not scream; merely stared at him with wide, ingenuous brown eyes. Erik was disconcerted. Perhaps she believed herself to be dreaming? She frowned slightly, as if he were no more than a particularly ugly statue, and then her gaze slid from his face and travelled slowly around the room, no doubt observing its dust and dishevelment.

Erik felt his hackles rise. "I do hope my home pleases you," he sneered, "for you will never leave it. Do you understand? You have fallen prey to the Opéra Ghost!"

When this did not provoke a reaction, he tried to increase his menace by circling his prey, allowing the hissing gas-lamps to cast strange shadows upon his gruesome features. He slid easily into his old persona. "Oh, if you had been a good little girl, then I might have let you go. But good little girls do not steal things or spy on people. You have been greedy, and intruded upon my privacy, and for that you must be punished! No bargains or reprieves! You are my prisoner now and no-one shall come to your rescue! Are you not terrified? Perhaps you do not understand the full horror of your predicament. This is no ordinary house, my flea, with ordinary doors and ordinary windows through which you might escape. It is a box of tricks - and deadly ones at that! The lake that surrounds it is haunted by a siren that has eaten hundreds of trespassers, all of them braver and stronger than you…"

She did not even flinch. Erik stopped circling and straightened up, feeling somewhat perturbed.

"You are a strange creature," he said. "What is your name?"

His enquiry was met by silence, and his temper began to fray. She was not even looking at him! "Are you quite deaf?" he demanded. "Answer me!"

She looked at him then, and he noticed that her eyes were glassed with tears. Whether or not she understood him, at least some sense of danger had penetrated.

A bolt of panic shot through him. If she cried then he would be undone!

"None of that," he said gruffly, beating a slight retreat. "Remember this is entirely of your own doing. We must all learn to face the consequences of our actions. And Erik will not harm you, as long as you perform your duties to his liking. Do you understand?"

Of course she did not understand. Erik had neglected to explain what those duties entailed. He looked around in a mild panic, drawing inspiration from his squalid surroundings.

"You are to live here as my servant," he improvised. "You will not weep or wail or try to escape. Of course, there is no way out, so I mention this only out of courtesy. My last servant tried to escape and was gobbled up by the siren before she had managed to swim more than three metres across the lake. Nasty business. That was eight months ago and as you can see my home has consequently fallen into a state of disrepair. You will rectify this situation. You will sweep up every petal, every cobweb, every crumb. You will clean and polish and scale and scrub. And when you have achieved this, you will keep my home in a state of spotless preservation, no matter how many hours it takes you. I do not want to see so much as a speck of dust."

He gave her a narrow look, trying to ascertain if any of this information had penetrated.

"Now, stand up."

To his surprise, the girl complied. Erik noticed that her legs shook slightly, but he ignored the urge to fetch her a chair.

"If you perform these duties to my liking then your life will be spared," he said magnanimously. "Furthermore, you will not find me cruel or unreasonable. I will even provide you with sustenance and a place to sleep."

And he nodded to himself, conscience satisfied.

When he looked down again she was examining the contents of a mahogany whatnot in the corner of the room. The vacant expression had returned. Erik clenched his jaw and forced himself to remain calm, reasoning that it was probably hunger and exhaustion, and not some inherent truculence, that was causing her to behave in such a fashion. He would have to remedy this condition if he was to have any hope of getting a day's work out of her. Blasted creature! She had been in his lair for less than an hour, and already she was causing him trouble! Well, she would not be rewarded for such behaviour. He would refuse to give her victuals until she at least understood the scope of her duties.

"Come," he said, sweeping impatiently from the room. "I will show you the rest of the house."

A green damask curtain separated the parlour from the library. He drew it to one side and entered, the girl following close behind. "I spend much of my time in here," he explained, "so this is where I wish you to begin." Although she still appeared slightly dazed, he noticed a glimmer of interest as she spied his collection of rare books. "You will refrain from touching them," he added sternly, and she looked away, suddenly fascinated by the patterns in the carpet.

"Here..."

He led her back through the parlour and into a dark, panelled chamber containing a long table and chairs. Above it, thick with cobwebs, hung a low chandelier. "This is the dining room," he said. "It is seldom used, as I am not in the habit of entertaining, but I expect you to clean it as thoroughly as you clean the library. Appearances must be maintained."

There were two further doors, one small and unassuming, the other, at the end of a short corridor, ornate and somewhat oriental in appearance. "You are not to enter that room under any circumstances," he told her, allowing a note of menace to creep into his voice. It seemed to have the desired effect, for she gave a brief, convulsive nod.

Satisfied, he opened the smallest door to reveal a galley kitchen. Beneath the grime it was practical and well-appointed, with a large dresser, water-tank, and a cast iron range. The last meal to have been prepared in there had been abandoned without being served. He could not remember the particulars. The rotten carcass of a chicken - some large bird, in any instance - sat upon the carving tray. Blue fur had sprouted from the serving dishes and the copper pans in the sink were similarly afflicted. Erik remained just long enough to indicate the presence of a tiny scullery before returning to the parlour.

Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was nearly three. No wonder she looked exhausted.

He had not yet given any thought to where she might sleep. Christine's room was out of the question, of course. Besides, he did not want her creeping around his lair at all hours, searching for an escape route. There was really only one option, although it was far from ideal.

Returning to the picture of the Persian tower, he turned the mechanism a different way, so that the staircase, instead of leading up to the third cellar, twisted down into the Communard's dungeon.

As the name suggested, it had once been used by the radicals who had briefly seized control of the city in the wake of the Prussian war. They had used it to house political prisoners, and after their defeat Erik had used it as a powder-magazine, barrelling enough gunpowder to reduce the Place de l'Opéra to a smoldering crater, should the need have arisen. Although he no longer used it to store ammunition, it remained a fetid place, musty with the lingering smell of damp powder. Hardly a suitable apartment for a creature so obviously in need of better care, but Erik did not falter as he lit a bullseye lantern and led the girl down to the dungeon's solitary cell.

To his relief, she did not need to be coaxed or threatened, merely entered at his gesture and settled herself against the wall in the far corner. A sickness pooled in his stomach. She looked so small and bewildered that for an absurd moment he contemplated offering words of comfort.

He locked the door instead. "I will return in a few hours," he murmured, then fled back to the parlour before he could do anything foolish.

* * *

><p>Sleep was an elusive beast. Although he had abstained for days now, working feverishly on preparations for his wedding, the girl's presence made it impossible, despite his exhaustion. He returned instead to pacing the rug in vain hope of finding a solution to his latest problem.<p>

It did not help that the girl appeared to have a cold. Hoarse, hacking coughs punctured this thoughts, leaving them open to attack.

_But really, Erik has brought this situation on himself, _said a snide, supercilious inner voice. _He encouraged its curiosity with his basket of figs and now he acts as though he wants nothing to do with it! Keeps it in dungeon and treats it with contempt!_

He recognised the voice. It was the same voice that had told him, once, that it would be a marvellous idea to pretend to be the Angel of Music. Insidious and sly in its methods, whenever he had resolved to tell Christine the truth, the voice had reminded him of his deformities, of his wickedness, and had assured him that nobody would ever look upon his true face with anything but horror.

_Surely the gentlemanly thing to do would be to show the creature hospitality, to give it sustenance and a warm bed? Perhaps it would like a glass of Tokay?_

The voice was not to be trusted!

Besides, it was for her own good. The girl would safe in the dungeon. Safe from his infernal temper, and safe from his kindness, which was far more dangerous. He had been kind to Christine at first and look how that had turned out. During his time as the Khanom's executioner he had despatched many prisoners for whom he felt nothing but cold indifference, a number which paled to insignificance when he considered the many thousands he had been prepared to annihilate in the name of love.

_At the very least he could take her a blanket..._

Ignoring the voice, he went into the kitchen to see if he could find some other remedy.

In an ordinary house the kitchen dresser might have been used to display the second best dinner service. Here, in addition to the second best dinner service, was an impressive apothecary collection. Dusty, treacle-brown bottles vied for space alongside gravy boats and dainty milk jugs. He stood in front of them for several minutes, one keen, diagnostic ear listening to the wretched sounds issuing from the dungeon. More than a cold, he thought. He needed to shift the phlegm from her chest before it turned into pneumonia. Clearing a space on the counter, he set a saucepan of water on to boil, then returned to the dresser and, after a moment's speculation, selected a small bottle of mastic resin. The women in the Khanom's harem used to chew it to whiten their teeth, but the daroga, who was beyond such vanities, had sworn by it as a remedy for bronchitis.

He emptied a few crumbs into the mortar and crushed them together with some liquorice root and coltsfoot. As soon as the water began to simmer he added a few flakes of dried peppermint to improve its palatability. He had no honey to use as a sweetener, which was regrettable.

Still, it was better than nothing.

As he waited for the infusion to brew he returned to the third cellar to fetch Madame Giry's basket. He took the opportunity to examine the girl's hiding place in greater detail. A collection of musty rags on the floor behind the costume rack suggested that she had been sleeping there on a regular basis. He wondered how many times had she seen him retrieve the basket. It was an unpleasant thought. He sifted through the rags in search of further clues. There were more of the ubiquitous matches, a filthy rag doll, and a tray fashioned from an old cigar box, which had been fitted with shoulder straps.

A match-seller, then. Had she been leaving the matches in lieu of payment for the figs? There was logic to that, at a squint, but why had she only targeted the figs? Surely bread and cheese were more filling? It was very strange.

Having accumulated more questions than answers, he went back downstairs and checked the parlour clock. Half past five. How long were children of her age supposed to sleep? Surely no more than a few hours: it could not take long for such tiny creatures to rejuvenate. In any event the infusion was ready. He strained it into a clean teacup and set it on a tray with some bread and cheese. Then, assuming what he hoped was an intimidating demeanor, he made his way back down to the dungeon.

She was already awake. Two little eyes gleamed at him like beads of jet in the darkness, although she made no sound.

Sliding the tray beneath the cell door, he wondered at her continued immunity to his face. It occurred to him that she might be damaged in some way. That would explain her muteness, although perhaps she was simply still in shock and struggling to come to terms with the grim reality of her situation. He could not blame her for that. Neither could he provide a remedy.

It took a moment for her to respond to the tray, and when she did, her lack of appetite troubled him even further. He watched with growing concern as she nibbled the corner of a bread roll, wincing as she swallowed the barest morsel.

He indicated the mug. "Drink that," he said. "It is a tonic for the throat."

She drank all of it, despite grimacing at the foul taste. He was so relieved that he did not pass any comment on her half-eaten breakfast as he unlocked the door and led her upstairs. In truth, he did not want to engage with her any more than was absolutely necessary. She had done nothing untoward and already he was struggling to remain calm.

Leaving her in the scullery, he went into the library with the vague notion that a few more chapters of _A Natural History_ might act as a balm to his nerves. He had just selected the correct volume when she appeared in the doorway, having equipped herself with a mop and bucket. She was _watching_ him again.

He snapped the book shut and put it back on the shelf. "Well?" he scowled. "You know what to do with it. Stop gaping and get to work!"

Unable to control the rising panic in his chest, he strode past her with as much dignity as he could muster and went straight to his room. Once the door was locked he leaned back against it, letting out a ragged sigh.

_The fearsome Op_é_ra Ghost - frightened of a flea!_

It was ridiculous.

Casting about for some distraction, he noticed that his other Christine was also watching him. It was an odd look, almost of exasperation. Had he done something to cause offense? Then he realised that she was still draped in his old opera cloak, like something that had been pushed to the back of an attic and forgotten about. No wonder she was annoyed! He hurried over to the workbench where he had left Madame Giry's basket and started unpacking the fabric for her wedding dress. Earlier that week he had made a toile from his winding sheet, puzzling out an intricate pattern for the sleeves and bodice. Now, he unrolled a metre of satin and lay the bodice pieces upon it, cutting around them in quick, precise snips.

It occurred to him that as soon as the gown was finished, he could let the flea go. It would not matter if she ran to straight to the constabulary. He would be past caring by then, joined in eternal matrimony with his other Christine.

Yes, now that he thought about it, the solution was very simple.

He tacked the bodice pieces together and carried them over to his other Christine, drawing aside the cloak so that he could check the fit. After making several tiny adjustments he returned to the workbench with an air of quiet satisfaction.

"Erik will write to Madame Giry this afternoon," he told her, threading a needle to begin work on the seams. "He will make sure the girl is not obliged to steal figs from anyone else after the wedding. A stipend of sorts, for we must not have her starving on our account. Would you like that? It is the least we can do, considering the circumstances…"

Another coughing fit from outside startled him. Recovering his wits - and his needle - he listened for a moment. The girl did not sound any better for the tonic. In fact, she sounded much worse.

"Of course, he will also make sure that she is properly attired," he added, but with less certainty than before. "It must be winter by now. She will have boots, gloves - even a coat if you think it necessary."

He glanced at his other Christine. She did not look convinced.

"You must know that Erik never intended to hurt the child? If he had realised that she was the one stealing the figs, then of course things would have been different, but we cannot change the past… Erik will protect her now, but it _must_ be on his terms. A few more days. That is all."

The thread snagged, and he tugged at the stubborn knot that formed in its wake.

He knew that she did not approve of him keeping the girl in the Communard's dungeon. Neither did he, especially now that it appeared her condition was deteriorating. But what else could he do? Surely, after everything that had happened between them, she could not consider there being any other option? He was a fiend who knew no other language than terror and violence. She of all people knew that. He could not be trusted with the care of a small child!

It was no use. He put down the sewing before he could damage the delicate fabric any further. Standing up, he performed several slow laps of his coffin, wracking his brain for another solution, one that did not involve him hiding in his room, or the girl being confined to a damp cell.

None was forthcoming.

The Opéra Ghost would not have stood for this, he thought. The Opéra Ghost would have had everything under control. He paused, looking down at his crumpled suit in disgust. He had not bathed in weeks and felt vaguely embarrassed at letting himself get into such a state. The shirt had turned yellowish and there were stains at the cuffs that he would not have stood for a year ago. He might still claim the title, but it seemed obvious now that the Opéra Ghost was long gone. Christine, the real Christine, had seen to that.

He took his leave with a small bow and went through the antechamber that led to his bathroom. The least he could do was make himself look presentable.

In the bathroom he twisted the shower lever as hot as it would go, then stripped off his filthy clothes and stepped beneath the scalding water, scrubbing every inch of his body with carbolic soap. As unpleasant as the process was he felt better for it. Very little hair sprouted from the mottled grey flesh of his face and skull, which thankfully rendered the more intimate task of shaving quite unnecessary Instead, he dried himself and returned to the antechamber. It resembled the dressing rooms upstairs, but its decoration owed more to his sideshow days, the walls plastered with old theatrical posters. It contained a floor-length mirror surrounded by electric lights: a necessary evil, for he had always taken a forensic interest in those aspects of his appearance he was able to control.

Ignoring his reflection for the time being - it was too much to see _everything_ - he opened the closet and inspected the costumes in his repertoire.

He had played many different roles over the years. From that first child-ghost, creeping around his father's chateau in a brocade suit and breaches he had discovered in one of the attics - to the Living Death, wrapped in the bandages of an Egyptian mummy, which were slowly unwound before crowd of horrified-yet-fascinated spectators. At the court of Mazandaran things had been grander, his mask encrusted with jewels and his loose-fitting robes glittering with gold threads. And there had sundry other characters, forgettable ones that had served a short-term purpose, such as visiting his banker, ones that required false noses and moustaches and bowler hats.

Now, though, it was time to revive his most famous.

He put on the familiar uniform of crisp white shirt, cravat, and black dress suit. He added a clean pair of gloves, polished shoes, and a wig from the stand on his dressing table. Almost two decades worth of daily performances meant that he could do all of this without looking in the mirror, at least not until the last moment, when he was required to put on the mask.

Standing in front of the mirror, he forced himself to look at his bare face, or what passed for a face. Hollow eye sockets, a sunken nub of flesh where the nose should have been, lips so thin as to be almost non-existent. Whatever happened, he must not forget that _this_ was what lay beneath the mask. That had been his mistake with Christine: to believe that she saw true goodness there, when he knew, deep down, that there was nothing of the sort.

However, if he played his part correctly, the girl would be safe. She might not quite fit into the category of guest, but at least she would be well treated until he could make the necessary arrangements. By assuming the role of Opéra Ghost once more, he would be able to add the ghost's gentlemanly attributes to his armoury: control in every situation, courteousness, and above all, a polite distance.

He fitted the mask in place.

* * *

><p>Several hours passed. He spent this time working on the wedding gown, and considering the finer details of his plan to contact Madame Giry. No further sounds issued from outside and he soon lost track of time.<p>

Late in the afternoon, it occurred to him that he should probably give the girl something to eat.

He made his way down the narrow corridor and into the dining room, where he halted in amazement. It was spotless. She had dusted the cobwebs from the chandelier, whose reflection could be seen upon the surface of the highly polished table. The floor had been mopped, and the panelling had a soft patina of wax. When he went into the kitchen to get more tonic he found racks of cleans plates, scrubbed worktops, and copper pans hung in order of size above a freshly blacked range. Bewildered, he wandered into the parlour. Not a single shrivelled petal remained. Things which had for months been shrouded in dust now leapt out at him. The strings of the harp, the piano keys, an ostrich egg and other items on the whatnot. She had even swept out the grates and lit the fires.

A peculiar feeling came over him, almost as though the last nine months had never happened. He was put in mind of certain folk tales, in which the unwary traveller strays into a fairy ring, and afterwards returns to his home to discover that many centuries have passed.

He looked at the clock. Not quite centuries, but rather a long time.

There was quiet cough from beyond the library curtain. He pushed it tentatively to one side, expecting to find her still at work, but she was fast asleep in front of the fire, an open book laid between her head and the hearthstone. Drawing the curtain back by its cord, he stepped into the room to get a closer look. It was one of his collection of illuminated manuscripts, opened to a full page illustration of a saint slaying a dragon.

He had expressly forbidden her to touch any of his books. By rights, he should muster rage and enforce some kind of punishment. But there seemed little point getting into character before an unconscious audience. Besides, she had not done any harm.

He bent down and took her gently in his arms. As he straightened up she burrowed against his chest, one hand clutching at the lapel of his dress suit. He froze in alarm.

A reflex, nothing more.

From this proximity he could see that her cheeks were flushed. Unnaturally, it seemed, as if they had been stained by carmine dye. More than likely it was a consequence of sleeping too close to the fire, but it troubled him as he made his way through into the parlour. He paused by the picture of the Persian tower and considered his options. There was always Christine's room…

No. That would never do. He would have to find somewhere else. The scullery perhaps. There was enough wood in the outer cellars with which to construct a rudimentary bed. It would not be luxurious by any standards, but it would be clean and comfortable. He could make it while she was sleeping.

Until then, she would have to make do with a blanket.

He carried her down to the dungeon.


	5. Chapter 4

IV

They were playing _Faust_ again, which always set her teeth on edge.

It was a busy night and the auditorium was stuffed to the gills with a jovial crowd. The inhabitants of box five – a banker named Tricard and his extended family – were in particularly high spirits, running her ragged with their constant demands for more refreshments.

Madame Giry was grateful for the distraction, but it was only temporary. During the interval she struggled to attend her daughter's animated chatter, and when Meg finally left her side to speak to her friends, she remained at the barre, fiddling with the ribbon of the slippers she had been given to hold. She kept one eye on the police commissioner, who stood at the far side of the Foyer de Danse, engrossed in conversation with one of the prettier ballerinas. In her agitated state she imagined herself to be under surveillance. Of course she knew that was absurd. She was hardly a criminal mastermind, and besides, the commissioner's furtive glances were much more likely to be in appreciation of the ballerina's slender ankles and décolletage than her own dowdy figure. But she could not help it. His presence reminded her of the night that Christine Daaé had disappeared, the night she had spent locked in the stage manager's office, accused of helping to blackmail the directors out of twenty thousand francs.

She had been lucky to come through that night without being arrested, let alone sacked. And yet here she was, left to perform her duties as though nothing had happened.

If only they knew what she had been doing whilst their backs were turned.

Forcing herself to look away from the commissioner, she scanned the crowd for Meg, and was surprised to see her in animated conversation with one of the gentleman subscribers. Usually she passed the interval preening and gossiping with the other ballerinas.

The gentleman in question was not handsome, but he seemed attentive, and Madame Giry felt a little surge of maternal pride at the sight. Her Meg had come a long way in the last nine months. After the Comte de Chagny's death, his lover, La Sorelli, had left Paris for her native Italy, not wanting her career as a prima ballerina to be tainted by the scandal. Her departure had seen Meg promoted from the corps de ballet to a soloists position, which meant a little more money (although never quite enough to cover her expenses) and more importantly her own dressing room, where she could entertain gentleman admirers.

It was a promising outlook, very promising indeed, and for that reason Madame Giry knew that she would have to take particular care that her work for the ghost was not discovered. She did not want to ruin her daughter's chances of making an advantageous match.

Her troubled state of mind did not go unnoticed. When they returned to her dressing room after the performance, Meg asked if there was something wrong.

"Nothing at all," she lied, through a mouthful of hair-pins. "Now hold still, unless you want it to turn out lopsided."

"It's meant to fall down a little at the back—"

"I can see that!"

Squinting at the cigarette card that was tucked into the mirror's frame, she tried to make out the intricate hairstyle of the actress it depicted. Meg was right; behind the frizzled curls and high chignon, a small amount of hair had been left to cascade over the nape of her neck. Tutting loudly, she snatched up the comb and used it to pull several strands of soot-coloured hair from the back of the chignon, trying to replicate the effect. Meg winced at this rough treatment, but knew better than to complain.

"You know," she said presently, "it's been almost a year now."

"Don't move your head, I said. A year since what?"

"Since they found Joseph Buquet."

"Hmn."

There was a brief pause. "Ma… do you think it's true, what they say about the ghost? You knew him better than anyone."

Madame Giry glanced sharply at her daughter's reflection. Meg knew the bare facts, but she had no intention of divulging the full extent of her work for the ghost. It was too shameful. "I was his box attendant, not his confidante," she said dismissively, but she was curious now. "Why? What do people say?"

"That he's gone. That he's gone for good."

"Well, I haven't seen him."

"But you've been so distracted lately. I thought—"

"If you must know," she said, sliding a jewelled comb into place, "I've been wondering where the money will come from to pay for all this finery. You must think I'm made of it."

Meg had the grace to blush. "Well," she said, turning her head from side to side to admire the finished article, "you won't need to worry about that if tonight goes according to plan. The Baron says I'll have more pin money a week than I could make in a year on my soloist's wage."

"The Baron?"

"The Baron de Barbazac!" she exclaimed. "Really, Ma, I told you all about him earlier. I knew you weren't listening."

"I heard you!" Hating to be caught out, Madame Giry turned away, gathering various discarded items of clothing from the floor. She felt like someone had tugged the carpet beneath her feet. The ghost had once told her that he could make Meg into an empress. After everything that happened, she thought he must have been playing her for a fool. However, the Baron, whilst no emperor, was rumoured to be extraordinarily wealthy, and Meg would never have come to his attention without the ghost's assistance. Could it be? He must have been the awkward young man who she had seen Meg talking to at the interval. "And how long have you known this Baron?"

"About a week," said Meg dreamily, the ghost forgotten. "He's… oh, Ma, he's lovely. When he first started coming to the Opéra the other girls wouldn't speak to him on account of him being so gauche looking, but I think he's sweet. You wouldn't think he was a Baron because he's not at all lofty like some of them are. I suppose he's very young."

"And you all of sixteen," Madame Giry scoffed. "I might ask where he's taking you, at this time of night?"

"To the Café Anglais," Meg said, standing up to admire her gown, which was also new; a dusky shade of lavender that lent a certain richness to her dark eyes. "Do I look alright? I've never been to such a fancy place before – except for the Foyer, I suppose. And really I should be wearing silk. He said he that doesn't care about all that but I do! The hair is perfect, though. Thank you." She noticed the petticoat that her mother had just stooped to retrieve. "Oh! Could you darn that for me?"

"I hope you don't prattle like this at the Café Anglais," Madame Giry muttered.

"If you must know he finds my conversation quite fascinating," said Meg airily. "And guess what else? He said I was beautiful. Me – beautiful! Can you believe it?"

Madame Giry snorted, but she was secretly very pleased. Meg, with her sloe-black eyes and scrawny, undernourished look, had never been noticed in that way before, much less been called beautiful.

"La Sorelli used to eat there all the time," Meg wittered on; she had always had a voracious appetite. "And they used to dine in Le Grand Sixteen, which is absolutely the finest private salon in Paris, all mahogany and gold leaf. I remember she told us once about a dinner the head chef prepared for the Tsar of Russia and some others, I forget who, and they had ortalons on toast, and roast lobster, and some extraordinarily expensive champagne they served in a special bottle so that the Tsar could admire the golden bubbles…"

"You sound more interested in the food than the company."

"Well, you're wrong," she said. "And I mustn't keep him waiting. He has a private carriage waiting by the _subscriber's_ entrance." She pulled on her cape, and for a moment Madame Giry was struck by how very grown up her daughter suddenly looked. How had that happened? Her little Meg, who only yesterday had been toddling about a tenement courtyard in a patched apron, her face smeared with coal dust.

But she was still so young, and the subscribers were not always the gentlemen they appeared to be.

"Marguerite," she called, and Meg paused in the doorway.

"Yes, Ma?"

"Mind it's just dinner." Meg rolled her eyes, but Madame Giry was insistent. "I mean it! You're still a snip of a thing, and I see a lot of what goes on around here. Don't you go doing anything silly before you can sure of his intentions. Remember, you're a lady now."

"But I'm not a lady," answered Meg with a wicked grin. "I'm practically a baroness!"

And with that she was gone.

Pursing her lips at such cheek, Madame Giry settled down to darn the torn petticoat, muttering beneath her breath. She remained at this task for over an hour. If anyone had put their head into the dressing room, she would have said that she was doing her mending here, instead of in her own cramped apartment, to save on the cost of lamp oil.

As it happened, no-one did. When she was finished she checked the time on her fob watch and felt a queer little leap in her stomach. It was past midnight. She folded the petticoat and put it away in the closet. Pulling on her shawl, she checked the fob-watch one last time before turning down the lights and locking up for the night.

The corridors of the administration block were deserted, with only the quiet hiss of the gas-lamps to keep her company. Nevertheless she glanced nervously in both directions before turning onto the little side passage that led to the cellars. Nobody was lurking in the shadows. The lights had already been extinguished here, and she was obliged to light the little lantern she kept in her basket. Her uneasiness grew the further she descended, and when she reached the old prop room on the third level she paused for a moment on the threshold, hesitant to leave the relative safety of the passageway. Not that she would ever admit it, but she was a little frightened of the prop room. This was the room where Joseph Buquet had been found hanged. Everyone said that the ghost had killed him and made it look like a suicide, and she had an uncomfortable suspicion that this rumour had more than a grain of truth.

Of course, she knew that he was not a real ghost. Real ghosts did not require bread and cheese and figs. He must be a man of flesh and blood to require such things. A very dangerous man, to be capable of murder and blackmail. Perhaps even a little unhinged. She thought of the strange items he had requested lately, such as modelling wax and glass eyes, and felt a shiver of unease.

She checked herself. Surely she had nothing to fear. Apart from the strange business with the figs he had never been less than a perfect gentleman where she was concerned. And a very generous one at that, paying her well above the going rate for her services. If it had not been for him then Meg would have bankrupted her years ago!

Crossly, she pulled the shawl tight about herself and marched over to the hat crate. He owed her thirty francs for the fabric she had bought him, and Friday was their agreed day for settling accounts.

She opened the lid and peered inside, but she could not immediately see the expected envelope. It must have fallen down among the hats. She began rooting for it.

"Madame Giry?"

The lid fell with a clatter, and she spun around. "Who's there?" she gasped.

"Do not be afraid, Madame Giry. I mean you no harm."

She knew that voice. She knew that voice very well. Raising the lantern high, she peered anxiously into the shadows, although she already knew there would be nothing to see.

"What do you want?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"As always, I require your assistance," said the ghost. She was not even sure what direction his voice was coming from. "But I am afraid it will be necessary for me to reveal myself. You must promise me that you will not scream."

Something inside her baulked. She had never seen him in the flesh before. In all the years she had worked for him, the ghost had never been more than a disembodied voice. She was afraid to cross that line – but she would not have anyone thinking she was a coward, him especially! And so she stuck out her chin and drew her dumpy, unintimidating figure up to its full height.

"You must have me mistaken for one of the ballerinas," she said, with as much indignation as she could muster. "Come out, if you want, and keep your smelling salts for them."

There was a soft sound, as if the ghost had sighed. "I am grateful to hear that," he said. "Now, do you see the cloth hanging from the wall to your left? The one that depicts a city in silhouette, with glass stars above the rooftops?"

"I do."

"I am standing behind it. I tell you this because I have no wish to startle you again. In the past, people have found my appearance to be quite alarming."

"People have said the same about me," she assured him, struggling to keep the tremor out of her voice. "We'll just have to take our chances."

"Very well."

Gripping the lantern tightly, she stared at the cloth, her heart pounding hard enough to crack a rib, her mouth set into an obstinate line. How would he reveal himself? Would the cloth part in two like a theatre curtain, or would he simply step out from one side? It was almost absurd. If she had not been so frightened, she would have laughed out loud.

In the end he did neither of these things. One moment he was not there, and the next he was standing in front of her.

He locked exactly as Joseph Buquet had described him to anyone who cared to listen: a very tall, skeletally thin man, wearing a dress suit, opera cape, and a soft felt hat. Most of his face was concealed by a black leather mask which shone softly in the lantern's light. Only his lips were visible, so thin and pale that they were almost non-existent.

"So you're not just a voice," she murmured, breaking the silence.

He gave a little bow. "Allow me to introduce myself, Madame Giry. I am the Phantom of the Opera."

"I know who you are!" she snapped, nodding in the direction of his mask.

"Though I must say the mask seems a trifle unnecessary. Do you think I'll run off and tell the police?"

"It is not a question of trust," he said.

He did not elaborate, but she knew very well the rumours about what lay beneath his mask, and decided that it was best not to press the matter any further. "Well then," she blustered, still nervous. "How may I be of assistance?"

"There is a girl. My… my ward." He spoke haltingly, choosing his words with care. "She is very ill and I cannot send for a doctor. I thought that, as a mother, you might be better acquainted with nursery ailments than I."

"To be sure, I've seen my fair share of them," she said, rather surprised by the idea of the ghost having a ward. "Do you know what it is?"

"I do not. In this area I am woefully inadequate. I thought - rather I hoped - that perhaps you might come and see her for yourself."

"Where is she?"

"In my house," he said. "Beneath our feet, on the banks of the underground lake."

"Oh."

"I realise this is all very unorthodox," he continued, speaking very quickly now, "and I understand your reluctance to follow me, after everything you have been forced to endure. I would never have asked this of you if it could have been avoided. But as I said the girl is very sick, and if anything were to happen… I will pay you handsomely! Name your price and I will double it! But you must come..."

His desperate demeanor seemed genuine enough and it was quite affecting, but Madame Giry was forced to remind herself that he had proven himself to be a consummate liar. Why, for all she knew this girl might not even exist. She might be a genuine phantom, invented as a way of luring the weak and gullible down to the ghost's lair.

But for what purpose? If he killed her, then he would have to find someone else to deliver his shopping, and if there really was a girl, she would never forgive herself if the poor thing perished because of her refusal.

She squared her shoulders, and answered before she could change her mind.

"Take me to her."

Perhaps sensing this, the ghost did not waste any more time. He pulled back the cloth to reveal a doorway in the bare stone that should not have been there. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she followed him into the darkness, down a winding staircase that forced them into awkward proximity for a few moments, before they emerged, quite suddenly, into an ordinary-looking drawing room.

She stopped short, amazed that such a place could exist so far beneath the ground. Of course, she had heard stories about the ghost's lair, but they had all involved a cavernous, carved-out, stone-walled sort of place, filled with stalagmites and dripping candles. The reality was so bourgeois it was almost bland. Dark, heavily-patterned wallpaper, armchairs with antimacassars, a pianoforte: it might be an ordinary apartment like the ones in the building where she lived and worked as a concierge. The only clues to its subterranean location were an absence of windows and a low ceiling, which gave it a slightly claustrophobic feel.

"Here," he said. "I have tried to keep her warm."

The ghost was hovering by a sofa in front of the fire. Laid on the sofa, covered by a variety of blankets, was the girl he had told her about.

Not a figment, after all.

Only her face was visible, and as Madame Giry drew closer she saw that her cheeks were bright red, except for the area around her mouth, which was ominously pale. She placed a palm against her forehead. It was scorching hot. Opening the girl's mouth to confirm her suspicions, she saw that the girl's tongue was also bright red, and flecked with white spots like the skin of a strawberry. She still had all her milk teeth.

"What is it?" the ghost asked, hovering a few feet away.

"Scarlatina," she said grimly. "My daughters - Meg had it when she was a little girl." She checked herself and removed her shawl, vaguely conscious of the ghost coming forward to take it, and then unbuttoned her sleeves and rolled them up to the elbows. "There's no time to waste. The first thing we need to do is get her away from the fire and put her straight to bed. Where is her room?"

Twisting his hands together, the ghost did not immediately answer. He seemed slightly at war with himself, and kept glancing into an adjoining room, which was hidden from her view by a green velvet curtain. Madame Giry picked up the girl, blankets and all, unable to fathom the delay. Had the shock of her illness caused him to forget where the girl slept?

"Monsieur? We must act quickly!"

"Of course. This way."

He led her into the adjoining room – a library, it seemed – where a bookcase swung back to reveal a hidden doorway. Again, he was hesitant, clearly unwilling to cross the threshold. Madame Giry finally lost her patience and carried the girl through into the bedroom beyond. She placed her on top of the counterpane and took hold of her feet. They were filthy and chilblained; feet that had walked the streets in all weathers.

"I'll need hot and cold water," she called out, rubbing them vigorously. She assumed the ghost was still dawdling behind her. "And I'll need something to put her feet in - a bedpan will do, or a shallow bowl."

Frowning as she worked, she let her gaze trail over the girl's ragged clothes and grimy, blackened fingernails. She certainly did not look like a gentleman's ward. She looked like a common street urchin. What was going on here? Nearby, she could hear the sound of running water, and when it ceased she looked up to see the ghost approaching with a porcelain wash-bowl, which he set on the bedside table. He had removed his cape and felt hat, revealing a somewhat dishevelled head of dark hair. What little she could see of his skin was grey and taut as a drumskin.

"There is hot running water in the bathroom," he said, "although I can boil some in the kitchen if necessary. Is there anything else you require?"

"Yes," she said. "Some shears, and nitrate of silver, if you have it. Have you given her anything?"

"Only a tonic, for the throat."

She broke off from rubbing the girl's feet and opened her mouth again, peering inside. "Well, whatever it was, it's done the trick. I can't see any ulcers. Although you can never be sure." She straightened up and began to remove the girl's clothes, ripping the tattered fabric in her haste. "These will need to be burned, along with the blankets. Scarlatina is wicked for spreading. I heard about a medical student at the university, died from it, and his trunk was sent back to his family in Rouen, with his clothes packed up inside. Half of them were dead within a week. Can't catch it twice, though. Have you—"

Looking up, she was disconcerted to find the room empty. After a moment she noticed that a pair of kitchen shears and a little brown bottle had appeared on a nearby chest of drawers. The ghost must have brought them in before disappearing.

She did not have time to dwell upon his odd behaviour. She needed to bring the girl's temperature down quickly, knowing from bitter experience that it was the fever, and not the infection, that was the real killer.

Removing the last of the rags and covering her with the corner of the counterpane, she went into the bathroom and placed a large towel in the bottom of the tub. She set the hot tap running. Later, she would wrap the towel around the girl's feet in an attempt to draw the fever down from her head, but first she needed to do something about her overall temperature. She hunted out the jug that paired the wash-bowl and filled it with cold water from the sink. After finding a sponge she turned off both taps and went back into the bedroom, leaving the towel to steep for the time being.

The door was now closed. Obviously the ghost had no intention of coming back.

She poured a little cold water into the wash-bowl and tested it with the back of her hand. It needed to be tepid rather than cold, as shivering would only make her temperature increase. As soon as she was done she drew back the counterpane and set to work. Slowly, but thoroughly, she wiped the girl down, thinking it would do no harm to remove a few layers of grime while she was it. She could not understand it. The ghost claimed the girl as his ward and yet she looked almost feral. There must be more to it…

Some of the dirt was very stubborn. Madame Giry paid particular attention to those areas, until she realised they were in fact bruises. Not particularly unusual for a child of her age - which she reckoned on being five or six at most - but the ugly, purpling mark that ringed her throat caused her to feel the first prickles of concern.

There was worse to come. Her ministrations revealed several long, red stripes, biting deep into the flesh of her back and shoulders. She recognised the marks of a belt. Some of the scars were barely healed, suggesting that the girl had been beaten recently. A wave of nausea swept over her. The ghost claimed that the girl was in his care, and it sickened her to think that he might be responsible for such horrible injuries. Whatever crimes he might have committed, she had always thought him as a kind man.

As she lowered the girl back onto the counterpane, she came briefly to consciousness, her large eyes dark as sloe berries. Madame Giry could not help but think of her own daughters, who had been much the same age when the fever had come.

Meg had recovered, but little Sylvie…

She refused to think about that now. Throwing a disgusted look at the doorway, Madame Giry went to the chest of drawers, hoping to find a thin sheet with which to cover the girl in case the ghost returned. Opening the top draw she found that it contained several night gowns and chemises, neatly folded. But they belonged to a grown woman, confirming her suspicion that this was not the girl's room. In fact, she doubted that it had been used by anyone for quite some time. The gas lamps sputtered from neglect, and there was a strange, musty smell. The fiend had probably been keeping her in the scullery!

A moan, followed by a soft, indistinct murmur, drew her attention back to the bed. Madame Giry found a sheet in the second drawer and returned quickly to the girl's side. Her body began to tremble as Madame Giry covered her with the sheet and tucked it beneath her armpits, her lips moving in mimicry of speech.

Recognising the first symptoms of the delirium which accompanied the fever in its most deadly form, Madame Giry returned to the chest of drawers to fetch the shears, her expression grim.

She hoped the girl was stronger than she looked.

* * *

><p>As the hours passed, Erik returned to his former occupation of pacing back and forth in front of the fire, only desisting when it became apparent that he was wearing a hole in the library rug.<p>

It was very quiet. Not so much as a cough issued from the sick room, and Madame Giry had only emerged once, throwing the remains of the girl's clothing onto the carpet and slamming the door behind her without a single glance in his direction. He had gathered these, along with the blankets that remained on the sofa, and burnt them according to her earlier instructions, standing in front of the fire until they were reduced to ashes.

Afterwards, he continued to stare into the flames.

He should never have taken the girl back down into the Communard's dungeon. It had been obvious that she was deteriorating, and another night in the cold, damp cell had surely made things worse. If she died then he would never forgive himself.

And if she did not die?

Glancing back towards the bedroom door, he listened carefully, trying in vain to discern any movements. Still nothing. He knew that Madame Giry was probably wondering where he was but he did not dare venture inside. Beyond the fact that it was Christine's room, his thoughts were far too distracted for him to trust himself to remain reasonable. There were too many facets of his character in the air. Gentleman, ghoul, gaoler - it was worse than spinning plates! He knew that he must strive for consistency if he was to avoid any harm coming to those around him, but in such circumstances it was very difficult. He had always - well, _almost_ always - treated Madame Giry with respect, and yet the girl, if she were sensible of anything, knew him as the worst fiend imaginable.

It was difficult to know how to manage them both at the same time, and so he remained, statued in front of the fire, until it had burned down to the embers, watching as they turned cold and grey. A great weariness descended upon him, and it was in this attitude that Madame Giry found him when she finally emerged, her expression ominously grim.

_No…_

"The fever is passed," she told him, and he almost sagged with relief.

"She will live?"

Madame Giry nodded, although she did not seem pleased. "She's a tough little thing. I don't know, but the scrawny ones always are."

"I am very grateful for your assistance," he said, awkwardly, and then went to the bureau, opening one of the drawers. "Now of course you must be paid…"

"I do not want your _blood _money," she spat.

"Pardon?"

"How did you come by the girl?" The woman was practically levitating. "You said she was your ward. Well, if you don't mind me saying, I very much doubt it!"

Erik was perplexed by her combative attitude, but saw no reason to conceal the truth - not all of it, at least. "I found her in the cellar," he explained, "gorging herself on figs. It seemed obvious that she did not belong to anyone and so I took her on as my ward."

Her eyes narrowed. "How long ago was this?"

"Two days," he said, discomforted by her scrutiny. "Her clothes her wet, so at first I deduced that she had caught a slight chill. She seemed quite competent otherwise." He thought it wise to gloss over the exact nature of those _competent_ activities, as he felt sure that Madame Giry would take a very dim view of him setting the girl to work, whatever explanation he might give. "I only realised the seriousness of her condition when I could not rouse her this morning."

Madame Giry's frown deepened, but she did not answer. The silence stretched into awkwardness. Nervously, Erik sought to fill it.

"I am very sorry about the figs."

"You didn't notice anything else?" she asked, as if he had not spoken. "No other injuries?"

Beneath the mask, Erik flushed, remembering his first encounter with the girl. He could not tell her what had happened. "I confess… that is, I did not examine her very closely…" he said, stumbling over the words.

She stared at him a moment longer. Despite the almost comical difference in their statures, Erik felt himself squirming, like an insect pinned beneath a magnifying glass. Although he had heard stories about her famous temper and had, over the years, witnessed various outbursts second hand, he had not expected it to be effective when directed at _him._

"I see," she said, finally.

She seemed somewhat mollified. "You are certain the girl will recover?" he ventured.

"There's still a way to go," she said, brusquely, but without her former venom. "She needs rest, and plenty of fluids. You must see that she doesn't get out of bed for at least the next fortnight."

Erik felt a little jolt of panic. "As a matter of fact I was hoping-"

"I have to go now." To his horror, she was pulling on her shawl and seemed to be looking around for a mirror so that she could fix her awful hat back in place. When she couldn't find one she stuffed it in her basket and looked at the clock. "_Seven_. I'm terribly late; that is, if they haven't sacked me already…"

"But you must stay! There are things we must discuss!"

"Are you deaf?" she asked. "I have two jobs to attend to and the tenants on the rue de Provence will be expecting me with their post. And then performance tonight. I shall be dead on my feet. Heaven knows when I'll have time to sweep the stairwells."

"I will pay you—"

She gave him a dangerous look. "And I have already told you that I do not want your money, Monsieur. Not anymore. Now, will you be so good as to show me the way out? I'll call in when I can with some mutton-broth. I dare say it will be a week or so before her stomach is strong enough to digest anything solid…"

And somehow, Madame Giry, all five feet of her, was able to compel Erik to escort her as far as the third cellar, where she left him with a vague promise that she would return in a few days. Erik was not quite sure how it happened. Very quickly, was all he could think when he reviewed their conversation afterwards. As for his proposal that she take responsibility for the girl, that had fallen, trampled to death, by the wayside.

It seemed that he had underestimated the old box attendant. She was absolutely fearless! Clearly, the months of isolation had rendered him less intimating.

Worse still, the girl remained in his care.

He returned in a state of something approaching shock to his kitchen, where he prepared another vial of the tonic which Madame Giry, in leaving, had told him to administer every few hours to ward off the development of ulcers. Placing it on a tray with a glass and a small jug of water, he made his way through to the library. He paused on the threshold of Christine's room.

It would only be a few days, he told himself, forcing back the tide of panic that rose in his chest. A few days, and then Madame Giry would return, and this time he would ensure that she did not leave until the girl was well enough to accompany her.

He entered the room. It was quiet and peaceful. Madame Giry had turned down all the lamps save for the one upon the bedside table, which shrouded the girl in its soft light. The counterpane had been removed, and she was laid beneath a thin blanket, wearing what he recognised to be one of Christine's night dresses, which for all its daintiness quite swamped her tiny frame. She appeared, if anything, to be even smaller than the creature he had carried down from the third cellar two days ago, as if she had been shrunk by the fever.

Approaching the bed, he put down the tray and took a closer look. Madame Giry had clipped her matted hair so close to her skull — presumably in an attempt to bring down her temperature — that she resembled the inmate of some asylum.

They made a fine pair.

Reaching out with a tentative hand, he touched the back of his index finger to her cheek. The skin there was rough and sore. Madame Giry had told him that she would shed it like a snake before the illness passed, if she lived.

A shudder ran through him. Glancing away, his gaze came to rest upon a certain corner of the room, where the wallpaper was smeared with the dried brown remnants of Christine's blood; the spot where she had beaten herself almost senseless on the night he had attempted to force her into marriage.

It was probably best that he did not think about Christine any more.

Dragging his gaze away from the blood stain, he moved the little tub chair from the dressing table, and, placing it next to the bed, he began his strange vigil.


	6. Chapter 5

V

A few days later a tureen of broth appeared in the third cellar. Madame Giry was not there when Erik went to collect it, nor had she left behind any indication of when she might return.

He tried not to dwell on this alarming development as he carried the tureen downstairs. No doubt it was a simple misunderstanding. He put the tureen on the kitchen table and opened the lid, then reeled back in disgust. It smelled repugnant, and its appearance was not much better: grey, indecipherable specks of meat and gristle floating around in a greasy broth. It seemed a shame that the girl should survive a deadly fever only to be poisoned, and so he poured the broth into the lake, and, in the small hours of the following morning, he made a clandestine visit to the kitchens of the Opéra's restaurant, which he had used as an extension of his larder during his tenure as the ghost. It was his first visit to the world above in almost nine months and the altitude was dizzying. He was relieved to return to his lair, having purloined the ingredients for a beef consommé, which he decided would make a more edible compromise.

Apart from these brief excursions, he rarely left the girl's side.

He felt strangely at peace with himself there. The events of the last few days had already assumed the surreal quality of a dream, reminding him of the soporific atmosphere that had shrouded the room after the frightful business with Christine had concluded. It had been the daroga who occupied the bed then, tended to with vials and salts, while the Vicomte de Chagny had recovered on a low couch beside the fire. Erik remembered how Christine had sat in the chair he now occupied, passing the hours in a demure aspect, as she read from a little gilt-edged book of devotions she had taken from his library. If one could forget the circumstances of its forging, the memory was almost pleasant. A glimpse of what life might have been like if he had been an ordinary man.

Through all of this the girl remained unconscious, only stirring briefly when he helped her to drink more of the tonic, or encouraged her to take sips of water to prevent dehydration. During these moments her gaze was glassy and unfocused, and he consoled himself with the notion that she was probably not aware of his presence.

Presently, though, tonic ran out. He returned to the kitchen to make another batch, and as he passed through the parlour on his way back to the room, he stopped short in front of the astronomical clock.

Madame Giry had now been gone for almost a week.

A terrible suspicion slunk into his mind as he returned to the girl's bedside. He tried to ward it off by reminding himself of Madame Giry's other obligations. For instance, she had the keeping of a small building on the rue de Provence. He had been there once and seen her depressing little apartment first hand: two musty rooms tucked away behind the entrance vestibule, their windows overlooking a dirty courtyard. Here, she was expected to perform the duties of both concierge and maid-of-all-work to the tenants who could not afford household staff, which he imagined was most of them. There were errands to run and floors to sweep and ranges to clean. In addition to all that she worked three nights at the opera house, which provided her only official wage, for the concierge job merely provided board and whatever tips she managed to accumulate from the tenants. It was a relentless schedule, even for a young woman. Madame Giry must have been at least fifty.

And yet she had always found time for him before. What kept her away now? She had behaved oddly upon their last encounter, but she had not seemed frightened of him. Quite the contrary!

He put the freshly made tonic on the bedside table and watched the girl for a few moments. She stirred a little, turning onto her side and bringing one hand up to rest against her fringe of dark hair. It occurred to him, with a creeping sense of unease, that Madame Giry still believed him to be the child's guardian. Did she therefore assume that he wished to keep her? Or perhaps, now that she had seen him in the flesh, she was so disgusted that she would never come back. He recalled how she had refused to take the money he had offered, and wondered if that had been her way of giving notice.

It was a terrifying thought, one which poisoned the atmosphere of sanctuary. No longer comfortable in his vigil, he returned to the parlour. It was in his mind to proceed through the dining room and visit his other Christine, but something stayed him by the pianoforte.

As things stood it didn't seem quite proper.

His looked down at the instrument. Since the girl had cleaned his lair a thin layer of dust had settled up the lid of the keyboard. He wiped it away, absently trying to recall the last time he had played it. To him, the pianoforte was little more than a bourgeois ornament, designed to give the illusion of propriety. He had only ever used it to compose a few light pieces for Christine's amusement.

Lifting the lid, he tested one key, and then another. It was not as badly out of tune as he had expected. Still, the discordance irked him, and so he removed his gloves and jacket and settled down upon the stool, grateful to have found a task to occupy his anxious mind. When he had finished, he found his fingers hovering above the keys. He had not played a single note since Christine had left him. Closing his eyes, he searched his memory for that inconsequential piece - the one that quivered behind the brutish chords of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Ah, yes! It had been a little sonata based upon Christine's favourite poem, intended as a gift, although circumstances had prevented him from completing it. The notes resurfaced with surprising ease, welling up from the secret place within his heart where he had pressed them away, coursing through nerve and sinew until his fingers jerked to life, filling the room with a gentle, chiming melody.

Several bars before he reached the point where his inspiration had run dry, his fingers suddenly stilled.

Someone was watching him.

He closed the lid of the pianoforte and rose to his feet, drawing on his gloves with a deliberate lack of urgency. He felt at the seams of his mask to ensure that it was properly fitted and smoothed back his wig. Finally, when he could find no reason to delay the motion any further, he turned to face the intruder.

How long she had been standing there he could not fathom. She was sunken-cheeked and pale, even more so against the dark velvet of the curtain, which she clutched with one bony hand. Her resemblance to a certain ghost-child was so uncanny it almost took his breath away.

"Good evening," he said.

She did not reply, but her keen, dark eyes were unmistakably focused upon his mask. Erik submitted to the examination with grim resolve. To his relief, she did not ask any questions, or give any indication that she remembered what lay beneath it. He hoped the fever had taken away her memories of how she had come to be in his lair in the first place. It would make the next few days - or however long it would be until Madame Giry returned - much easier.

As the silence stretched on, he tried to think of something appropriate to say, perhaps in reference to her bare feet and cold stone floor, or the fact that Madame Giry had warned against her getting out of bed before she was sufficiently recovered. But he found that he did not know the part well enough to audition. Instead he found himself attempting to smile. The effect must have been quite ghastly, but he fixed the expression in place, determined to act the part of a good host.

"Madame Giry left something for you," he said, remembering the consommé with a rush of relief. "If you would be so kind as to come this way, then I shall prepare it for you."

He led her into the dining room and bade her take a seat while he went into the kitchen to heat it up. Madame Giry had told him not to give her too much to eat at first, or she might be sick. A few ladlefuls would suffice. He measured this amount into a small bowl and hurried back to the dining room, presenting it to his little guest before taking a seat at the head of the table. He regretted that his presence was necessary; eating in front of a corpse was no doubt detrimental to the appetite, but he need to make sure she was fed. If nothing else, he feared the consequences of Madame Giry returning to find that he had allowed the girl to starve to death.

She looked at the bowl and then at the empty place where his own bowl should be set.

"I have already eaten," he lied.

After a few moments the girl picked up her spoon and dipped it into the consommé, taking an experimental sip. Erik found himself holding his breath. Finally, closing her eyes, the girl let out a little sigh, and took another sip, and another, displaying a remarkable appetite for one so small and supposedly feeble.

When she had finished she put down the spoon and observed him warily. Erik opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

Their stalemate continued for several minutes. Then, without warning, the girl stood up. He mirrored her actions like a gentleman should and watched, bewildered, as she picked up the bowl and spoon and carried them into the kitchen. What on earth was she doing? Listening carefully, he heard the sound of the tap being turned, and the subtle change in the water's sound as she began to wash the bowl. Erik was alarmed by this development. Clearly she did remember their first encounter, and still believed herself to be his servant.

Before he could decide on the best way to rectify the situation, she returned to the room, hovering by her chair as if awaiting further instructions. He licked his dry lips and tried to think of a suitable response.

"I…"

His inspiration ran dry. Of course he had encountered children before - ballet rats, mostly, and those brought to his sideshows by their parents - but Erik could not remember the last time he had actually spoken to one. Perhaps never. He had a vague idea that there was an etiquette to these things. It probably involved the impartation of good morals, an area in which he was emphatically unqualified. At any rate, it certainly did not involve locking them in dungeons, frightening them into servitude, and failing to identify the first symptoms of a life threatening illness.

In that moment he hated Madame Giry with every fibre of his being. How dare she leave the child at his mercy? How dare she believe his lies? How could she abandon him after all these years? The familiar tide of panic began to rise once more within his chest. If it rose any higher he was sure it would drown him.

Unable to stand the girl's enquiring gaze a moment longer, Erik turned on heel and fled the room.

* * *

><p>It was Friday before Madame Giry returned to the third cellar. She did so with some measure of reluctance. Delivering his shopping had been one thing, but seeing him in the flesh had been quite another, forcing her confront the uncomfortable truth. Her employer was no ghost. He was a criminal who had extorted thousands - if not millions - of francs from the Opera's management. At one time she had been his unwitting accomplice, but she could not claim the same ignorance now.<p>

A sensible woman would put an end to the whole sordid business and never return. If the management ever found out, she would certainly be arrested, and it would not merely be her own name dragged through the mud. Meg's reputation would be in tatters.

Of course, it was not as simple as that. Unlike the management, the ghost - she had no other name for him - had always been kind and courteous. She felt a moral obligation to treat him with the same respect. And on a more practical note, the girl had nothing to wear, and so she pushed her reservations to one side, packed a few of Meg's outgrown clothes into the basket, and made her way down to the prop room after the last performance of the week.

Lighting the lantern, she stifled an alarmed cry.

He was already there.

"Madame Giry! How good of you to make time in your busy schedule," he said, extending a low and theatrical bow.

There was something not quite right about his tone, and if she did not know any better then she would have thought that his sudden appearance had been calculated to frighten her. "It's good to see you too. How is the girl?" she asked, thinking she must be imagining things.

"Much improved."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Are you? Forgive me, but you stayed away for so long that I thought the girl's survival was a matter of great indifference to you. How silly of me to forget that you are in possession of a crystal ball, which you have no doubt been using to reassure yourself of her progress."

This time there was no mistaking his sarcastic tone. Madame Giry felt herself turning quite purple. She pursed her lips, the feathers on her dingy hat quivering with indignation.

"Would you care to see her?" he continued. "Or are you too busy? Perhaps you have a floor that is in urgent need of sweeping?"

It was only by a small miracle that Madame Giry restrained herself from stepping forward, snatching the mask from his hateful face, and boxing him about the ears with it.

"I will see her," she seethed.

They did not exchange another word as he led her downstairs, although Madame Giry had a good deal of them in mind. Floors that needed sweeping indeed! Did he think her some common skivvy? After all these years of loyalty and discretion, after all the indignities she had suffered on his behalf - well, if he considered her a mere servant then he could find himself another. Let him put an advert in the paper! Yes, as soon as she had satisfied herself of the girl's recovery she would hand in her notice and let him find another poor fool to abuse!

"You can wait outside," was all she trusted herself to say when they arrived at the girl's room. "I will come and find you when I am done. You might want to spend the time looking for your manners."

And with that, she stepped inside the room, slamming the door in his startled face.

She was surprised to find the bed empty. Looking around, she found the girl sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, what appeared to be a little doll in one hand. Upon seeing Madame Giry, the girl's eyes widened in fright. She dropped the doll and scrambled to her feet. She was still very pale and scrawny looking, but there was colour in her lips, and her eyes shone like beads of polished jet.

"You're much improved, I'll give him that."

The girl still looked frightened, and although she didn't believe in molly-coddling children, Madame Giry attempted a more gentle tone, with limited success: the anger she felt after her encounter with the ghost still bubbled inside of her.

"I dare say you don't remember who I am," she said brusquely. "But you needn't be frightened. My name is Madame Giry. And what do they call you?"

The girl opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.

Madame Giry harrumphed. "Well, there'll be time for all that later. Although how you're meant to learn proper manners from _him_ I can't say." She put her basket on top of the chest of drawers and began to unpack its contents. "I've brought you some clothes. They belonged to my daughter when she was about your age, and they'll do until his lordship makes other arrangements. I suppose he hasn't thought that far ahead. Anyway, some boots. You shouldn't run about in bare feet. And a little cap, there…" She paused for moment, running her thumb over the soft fabric; the cap had belonged to Sylvie, one of the few things she hadn't been forced to burn. But it made no sense to hold onto it for sentimental reasons when the girl needed it more. "You'll catch the death of it down here if you don't keep your head covered. Now…"

She glanced at the girl, who was watching her curiously now, and noticed a little smudge of soot on her cheek.

"I shall run you a bath."

Leaving the girl to her own devices, she went into the bathroom and turned on the taps, grateful for the distraction, for she was still very much vexed by the ghost's behaviour. What a stupid old woman she was! He had played her for a fool once before, writing that ridiculous letter about Meg being destined to be an empress - and she had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker! Just as he fallen for his maudlin routine in the cellar. He had probably been laughing behind her back the whole time. And why not? Everybody else did.

Scowling, she turned around to find that the girl had followed her as far as the door, where she now stood, staring at the water with an expression halfway between fear and fascination. No doubt she had never seen one before.

"Come on then," said Madame Giry, ready for a battle. "Dawdling won't get you out of it."

Surprisingly, the girl submitted to the first bath of her short and presumably feral existence with very little fuss, although she winced when the flannel made contact with her scarred back. It gave Madame Giry pause to consider why the girl was so compliant. The obvious reason made her feel a little ill, and she found that some of her anger toward the ghost, who after all had rescued the girl, however inadvertently, dissipated. He did not seem to know about the scars, which brought another problem to her attention. A single man could not be expected to attend to every matter of a young girl's care, especially as she grew older. He would need help.

This troubled her as she dried the girl and changed her into one of Meg's old nightdresses, covering her shorn head with the little white cap. She tied the strings under her chin and helped her back into bed, leaving her to burrow down beneath the covers as she put away the rest of Meg's old clothes. There were not many of them: a few faded dresses, two aprons, and a pair of patched stockings. It was enough for the time being. She moved the contents of the top drawer into the wardrobe to make room for them, and in the process discovered a small but expensive-looking collection of gowns. They were cut in the latest style. Clearly, the room had, quite recently, belonged to a woman. She had even left a collection of hair pins on top of the drawers, along with several strands of honey-blond hair.

Madame Giry felt a vague stirring of suspicion when she thought of who they might belong to, but she pushed it from her mind and returned to bed, drawing the covers up beneath the girl's chin. She looked tiny, and not for the first time, Madame Giry wondered if she was doing the right thing by leaving the girl with such an odd, mercurial - not to mention criminal - character, but she could not think of an immediate alternative. She was in no position to take in waifs and strays herself. Charity was passtime for the wealthy, which left only the foundling hospital, a grim and loveless place.

"You get some sleep," she said, patting the covers awkwardly. "Things will look better in the morning."

* * *

><p>This time, she was prepared to find the ghost waiting.<p>

"Madame Giry," he said, sounding very contrite as she emerged into the library. "If you would be so kind as to come this way, I have prepared some refreshments."

"Very well."

Although her anger had cooled during the last half hour, the sight of him brought it back to an immediate boil. Evidently he regretted the way he had spoken to her before. Well, he would regret it even more when she was through saying her piece! She stalked after him, winding herself up to tell him exactly what she thought of his behaviour. And if he thought for one second that she would continue to flit about the market doing his shopping-

They entered the parlour, where, upon first glimpse of the tea tray, her rage was dealt a mortal blow.

In all her God given days she had never seen such exquisite porcelain. The handles on the little cups were so dainty, decorated with gold leaf and tiny flowers that were painted with a botanist's eye for detail. And as for the delicate aroma wafting up from of the pot itself, well, it put to shame the bitter leaves she was used to brewing. Furthermore, there was a selection of soft pastries on a little side plate - and blow her down if the tray wasn't solid silver!

"Please, do take a seat."

She was quite dazzled, but she covered it well, settling into the plush armchair with an air of aloof dignity. He had already taken up a pair of tongs and was hovering above the pastries as if awaiting further instructions. She eyed them greedily. Really, it would be sensible of her to eat at least one. After she handed in her notice, who knew where her next meal would come from?

"I suppose I could manage an eclair," she allowed.

He lifted one onto a plate and passed it to her. Although another armchair had been drawn up on the opposite side of the table, he did not sit down, but continued to loom nervously. It was almost enough to spoil a person's appetite. Almost. She nibbled at the eclair as daintily as she could with her three remaining teeth, her gaze fixed upon the teapot.

When she was finished the silence continued. She rested the plate on her lap, eyeing the remaining pastries. She wondered if he might offer her another one in penance.

He did not. Instead, he cleared his throat and finally sat down. "I owe you an apology." he said.

"Is that so?"

"Madame Giry, I do not expect your forgiveness-"

"I should think not," she erupted, unable to hold back any longer, "because I don't mind saying that your behaviour has caused me to consider my position very carefully, Monsieur_,_ very carefully indeed! And then there's the inconvenience. Figs are one thing, but do you think glass eyes are easy to come by at the weekly market? Not to mention if the directors ever caught me. Why, I'd likely be hanged as your accomplice! Yes! I put my life on the line and how do you repay me?"

"Very handsomely," he assured her. "And when this sorry business is all over I intend to compensate you in full for your troubles. You need not live out your days in some dingy tenement, Madame. You could retire to a cottage in the country, or on the coast, if you prefer. Would you like that? I know of a wonderful place in Brittany…"

Madame Giry licked her lips. Some icing lingered there, sweeter than his bribe, which she knew would have a bitter aftertaste. Her compensation would no doubt come from the fortune he had extorted from the directors over the years. If that money was ever traced back to her, well then, she really would be hanged.

"I do not need you money," she said ruefully.

"That is understandable," he said after a moment's pause. "Madame Giry… I want you to know that I do not intend to keep you in my service with blackmail or threats of violence. You are released from our contract with immediate effect. Indeed, you may leave here now, if that is what you wish, and never return as long as you live. I have only one request."

Of course there would be a catch. "And what is that?"

"I ask that you find the girl a suitable home."

"But I thought…"

"You thought what I wanted you to think," he said bitterly, rising to his feet. He walked to the fireplace and fixed his gaze on a small ebony box that rested upon the mantelpiece. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, devoid of its former emotion. "Whatever I have have led you to believe, I am not a good man, Madame Giry. In fact I am barely a man. So you see, the girl must be sent away, for she can never be safe here. Erik would do something terrible."

"Erik?" she asked, frowning a little. "Who is Erik?"

He looked at her as if she had said something peculiar. "I am Erik."

"_You_ are Erik?"

"Yes."

"I see."

Her frown deepened. It was strange to think of the ghost having a name; even stranger that he should use it as though it belonged to somebody else. And what did he mean by denying his own humanity? He _was_ a man. A criminal, perhaps, but that did not necessarily make him a monster. She certainly could not think him capable of harming a child. Confused, she took advantage of Erik's distracted state in order to examine her surroundings more closely. Its furnishings were staid and old-fashioned, but of fine quality, and the exotic ornaments and paintings suggested that he was well travelled, or at least liked to give the impression of being so.

"How long have you lived down here, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Twenty years, I should think."

"Twenty!"

"Perhaps less," he said, his lips quirking into something like a smile. "I have not exactly been carving notches in the walls."

She looked around, baffled. "I still don't understand, how did you… I mean... how did you find this place?"

"I built it." He watched her for a moment; at first she thought he was amused by her astonishment, but when he spoke again she realised that he had been considering whether or not to tell her something. "I was an architect once, far from here, and when I came to Paris I found myself working for Monsieur Garnier. At the time he was sinking the foundations of a new opera house, and he was having a problem with groundwater."

"Yes," said Madame Giry, remembering it well. "Me and Mr Joules - my late husband, that is - we used to walk past here on our way home. It looked like a giant swamp in the middle of the city. Mr Joules liked to look at the pumps they brought in - huge, they were! But he always liked that sort of thing. He was a machinist at the Salle le Peletier, you now, and then here when it opened."

"I know."

It seemed to Madame Giry that he had a way of knowing everything, which unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

"The pumps were a temporary solution," he continued. "Garnier built a cofferdam eventually: two walls, one within the other, and after the pumps were removed the water flooded back into the innermost ring."

"So the lake…?"

"Not quite as supernatural as it looks," he said, the faint smile returning. "But then, it was the space between the walls that interested me. You see, Madame Giry, a man like me does not belong in the world above. I had long been searching for suitable retreat, somewhere hidden, where I could live out my days without having to inflict my appearance on the general public, where certain individuals could not-" He stopped short, apparently thinking better of whatever he had been about to divulge. "The reasons are tedious. It is enough to say that the stress of dealing with the groundwater caused Monsieur Garnier to suffer a period of ill health, and I was left in charge of the building plans while he went off to some seaside retreat. I used my new powers to make small amendments, widening the walls, adding certain passageways that had little to do with the running of the opera house. Nobody noticed. It is amazing what one can achieve, working in plain sight with the cloak of authority to disguise one's true intentions. As for the rest, I worked here day and night when it was abandoned during the Siege, and sealed myself in so effectively that not even the Communards who came after realised they were using my wine cellar to store their ammunitions. It really hasn't been necessary to go above ground since, except on a handful of occasions. I have everything I need down here, and as you know, I have ways of obtaining even the most unusual of items."

But it was not glass eyes or modelling wax that Madame Giry thought of now. She thought of the gowns in the wardrobe, and of certain articles she had discovered in box five over the years: a lady's fan, a flower. At the time she had naively assumed the ghost to be married.

"Have there been no visitors?" she asked him.

"No - no visitors."

The edge to his voice, along with the evidence in the girl's room, led Madame Giry to the conclusion that there _had_ been a love affair of some kind, although it clearly had not ended well. She watched him discreetly as he turned his attention back to the ebony box. A large part of her was still angry about his earlier behaviour, and she did not want to let him off the hook just yet, but she also felt the first stirrings of pity. His deformity must be truly horrific for him to hide away down here, thinking himself unworthy of human company.

Twenty years. It did not bear thinking about.

"You have a visitor now," she said, not unkindly. "And if you don't mind me making a suggestion, you should pour her some tea before it stews to death."

"Forgive me! Of course…"

He hurried back to the table. As he poured the tea she noticed that his hands, in their pristine white gloves, shook slightly, but she made no comment.

"I do not intend to trick you, Madame Giry," he said, passing her the teacup. "You know how I acquired my wealth. However, I have been attempting to turn over a new leaf recently, and it would please me if the proceeds of my crimes were put towards something more charitable." He poured himself a cup, leaving it black and unsweetened. "Everything happens for a reason, I think, and the manner in which the girl came to me leaves me feeling somewhat responsible for her welfare. I want her to have a home. Not an orphanage or one of those wretched convents, but a real home, with people of quality who do not force her to wander the streets selling matches, stealing figs from opera ghosts to save themselves from starving to death. I would be more than happy to provide for her education. But she cannot stay here. At least, not in the long term. It is my ardent desire that you will help me in this quest. Not for my sake, but for hers. So you see, I find myself… rather at your mercy..."

He trailed off, staring into the depths of his tea, which he seemed to have no intention of drinking. Madame Giry considered his outlandish request as she added milk and sugar to her own. Did he really think that people of quality went about letting feral match girls into their homes? No-one ever heard the like. Far better for the girl to stay where she was. However eccentric Erik's living conditions, they were far more comfortable than anywhere in the city above that would be willing to take responsibility for the girl.

Everything happened for a reason, he had said, and she quite agreed. It might even do him good.

Of course, she knew that he would baulk at the idea if she told him outright, but Madame Giry had many ways of bringing people around to her way of thinking. She cast a calculating look into the fire as she stirred her tea. It did not take long for her to gather the kindling she needed for her plan. She looked back at Erik, bringing the teacup to her lips to disguise her smile.

"Very well," she said, taking the first sip. "I will help you."


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: A massive thank you to Not a Ghost3, KitKat, Rin Owens, meatpuppet1, Arlecchina-Rosa, Wild Concerto and Gaby1964 for taking the time to review. It means so much. Also, to the poor guest reviewer who thought that Erik was keeping a real Christine in his lair, encased in wax, thank you for giving me nightmares ;) **

**I have some small hatred of this next chapter. Not only was it a bitch to write, Erik has seen fit to deviate from my carefully prepared synopsis, so I have no clue how I'm going to to get to the next plot point. **

**Anyway, onwards... **

VI

Madame Giry was something of an expert when it came to the adoption of foundlings, as she revealed over two more cups of tea and a chocolate eclair. Erik spoke very little. After so many months of silence, his recent loquaciousness had left him with the beginnings of a sore throat, added to which, their conversation had given him pause to consider just how surreal it was, that he should be sitting here, drinking tea with what he supposed amounted to an old acquaintance.

It was almost ordinary.

Of course, Madame Giry was more than capable of making up for his reticence.

"Paris is out of the question," she said when it came to the practicalities. "People up there have funny ideas about these things. A girl like her, well, you don't know where she's been." Erik's expression darkened. "Don't look at me like that! I'm not speaking for myself. It's them. And as I was saying, they've got funny ideas, such as, well, she might have fleas and infest the place, or be a bad influence, or bring them down a few rungs on that _respectable_ ladder they like to climb."

Surely that was not always the case, he thought. Christine had been taken in by a middle-class professor when she had been not much more than the girl's age, and the same professor had been willing to give shelter to her father as well, who by that time had been little more than a vagrant, having left his home to pursue a career as an itinerant musician.

But that had been in Gothenburg; perhaps it was different in Paris.

"And there's her health of of," Madame Giry continued.

He felt a queer tightening in his chest at this addendum. "But you said she would recover?"

"I said she would _probably_ recover," she corrected, "but it's a delicate process, and if you ask me, the best thing for Scarlatina is fresh air. Meg didn't come right again until I sent her to the country to stay with my sister. You'd be sensible to do the same thing. Plenty of fresh air, as I said, and you'll find people out there a sight more charitable in their views. There'd be more chance of finding her a proper home, somewhere that would treat her kindly, if that's what you want."

Erik tried not to dwell on his own country childhood, which had been anything but charitable. "Of course," he said. "And your sister, does she have the necessary connections?"

"She's been dead these past five years, God bless her soul." She paused, and Erik thought he saw a calculating gleam enter her eyes. "But my niece is still living there. As it happens, she's in the family way, and it's just the two of them now, her and my nephew-in-law. There should be a little one along any day now. I'm going to see to things until they get settled. Just for a few weeks, mind. I can make enquiries while I'm there."

His eyes narrowed, suspicious of both the convenience of the infant and the idea of a concierge being allowed to take leave of her duties. "It's very good of your employers to give you the time off. I would have thought that very irregular, for a woman in your circumstances."

She met his gaze steadily. "It must be all those years of loyal service," she said, a challenge in her eyes which Erik chose not to accept, sensing that she was not speaking of the Opera's management.

His throat was beginning to sting now. He looked down into the cold depths of his tea, wondering absently if it had any antiseptic qualities, before taking an experimental sip

"You'll take the girl with you, then."

"Why on earth would I do that? My niece in childbed, and me turning up with a strange girl? No. I will make enquiries while I'm there, but in the meantime the girl must stay with you."

Erik nearly choked on his tea. "That is out of the question! I thought I had made my circumstances very clear - and besides, I know nothing about the care of children!"

"Neither did I until I had one of my own!" she retorted. "These things have a way of coming to you. And besides, the girl isn't strong enough to travel yet. I told you before and I'll tell you again: it's a delicate process. She must be kept indoors for at least a fortnight before she's exposed to the elements."

The damn woman was contradicting herself. Take her from the city, keep her in the city, fresh air, no fresh air. "But I-"

"Do you want my help or not?"

And there it was, the coup de grâce, as surely as if she had driven a dagger through his chest. After his his disgraceful performance in the third cellar he knew that he was skating on thin ice as far as her good will was concerned. It would be prudent of him to let her set the terms of this new arrangement, however horrifying he might find them, or risk having no help at all.

"Whatever you think best," he murmured.

There was more to be said on the subject, but Erik heard little of it, merely nodding from time to time as Madame Giry continued, her voice reduced to a quiet buzzing in his ears. He could not quite believe what was happening. And as for the brazen way in which Madame Giry had asserted her power over _him_ of all people, it was insufferable! But then, she had seen what he was now - or rather, what he had been reduced to - and he was forced to admit that he was quite at her mercy. A distant part of him was almost amused. He was the Living Death, the Master of Traps, the Opera Ghost, and here he was, defeated by a mere box attendant.

But there were other, more pressing matters to think of now. The girl was in his care. He needed to find some way of making the next fortnight bearable for them both. More than a fortnight, if the supposed infant was not inclined to be punctual.

It seemed like an impossible task.

Presently, Madame Giry noticed the time, and she put down her tea-cup with a final, proprietorial glance at the eclairs. "I'd best be getting off," she said. "I don't suppose there's a different way out? This will be the second time the concierge has seen me leaving at such a peculiar hour, and I don't want her getting suspicious."

Erik conceded the point. After thinking for moment, he got to his feet and went to the pianoforte. There was a compartment in the side which hid the small, velvet bag he used to store his keys. He selected one for which he had two copies, the original being about his person, and the other copy being, he assumed, still with Christine, although he could not think about that now.

"You brought a lantern, I presume?"

"Of course."

"Then I would suggest that you light it now," he said. "There is another way - the front door, in fact - but it would be quite treacherous in the dark."

Leaving her to fumble in the basket, he went to his room to fetch his hat and opera cape. When he returned he found her ready to depart, the lantern flickering as she held it slightly aloft.

"Come, then."

He waited until she stood beside him, a somewhat perplexed expression on her face, before he reached up to tug on the stem of a brass wall lamp. Immediately, the wall swung around, moving as swiftly as the floor, and deposited them on the other side. She gave a startled gasp.

"A simple pivot," he explained.

They had come out onto a small stone jetty. Beneath them was tethered a small boat, and beyond them stretched the underground lake. Avernus, he had once called it, a gateway to the Underworld, although it more closely resembled the flooded undercroft of a church, with low, vaulted ceilings and columns that divided the space into a series of connected chambers. Its labyrinthine nature had always suited him well, allowing him to navigate its murky waters undetected, even on the rare occasion that there happened to a hydraulicien present, for the machinery used for certain stage effects was also housed down here. He did not think they needed to worry about anyone being present now. Even the keenest worker was unlikely to be conducting maintenance at four in the morning.

Madame Giry seemed to have been struck dumb by the sight of it. There was more than a sliver of fear in her expression, and Erik was almost moved to explain that the lake was, in reality, merely a glorified cistern. But he resisted the impulse. Admittedly it was not very _charitable_ of him, but perhaps the Opera Ghost was not entirely defeated, after all.

He stepped down into the boat, allowing himself the tracings of a dastardly smile before he turned and extended a helping hand. Once she was settled he loosened the mooring and used the oar to push off into the darkness.

There was silence for several minutes, except for the quiet splashing of the oars.

Of course, Madame Giry was incapable of holding her tongue for any length of time, and the silence was soon broken. Her voice trembled slightly, but with a bravado that was almost admirable, she seemed determined to carry on their conversation as if they had never left the parlour. "I meant to ask, did you find the broth I left you? Only I wasn't sure."

"Oh, yes," said Erik. "It was quite delicious."

"It wasn't meant for you."

"My apologies. I meant only that I had tasted the broth to make sure of the temperature after heating it up; the girl was not deprived of any essential nutrients."

Despite the censure in her tone, Erik noticed that she had preened slightly at the compliment, and he realised that he must take care not to praise her cooking again, lest she be tempted to make another batch. It seemed safer to change the subject entirely.

"As you seem intent on abandoning me," he continued, "now might be a good opportunity for you to impart any wisdom you see fit to provide."

"Concerning?"

"Concerning the girl's welfare, of course. Erik was not lying when he said that he was inexperienced. He- I do not even know her name."

"Have you asked her?"

"Of course I have asked her!" He glanced away in irritation, certain that she was being deliberately obtuse. "Perhaps she has forgotten it," he said flippantly. "Children are forgetful creatures, are they not?"

"Happen she wants to forget," came the peculiar response. "You'll have to give her a name, if it doesn't turn up soon."

Erik scoffed. "I will do nothing of the sort. To give a name implies ownership, in which case the honour belongs to the girl's adoptive parents."

"And what exactly do you intend to call her in the meantime?"

"_Girl_ seems quite sufficient!"

On that sour note they reached the other side. Again, the jetty appeared to be little more than a ledge, a few centimetres raised from the water, with no discernable door. As he tied the mooring rope, Erik twisted the metal ring to which it was secured, and a section of the wall sprung forward on invisible hinges. He waited until they had stepped into the tunnel on the other side, where it appeared as an ordinary door, with handle and hinges plainly visible. Then he explained the mechanism. "But you should have no cause to use it. As soon as the handle is turned an alarm will be triggered, and I will come to collect you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she snapped.

"Well, then. Let us proceed."

He led her along a short corridor which terminated at the foot of a spiral staircase. Although he offered no explanation, they were in fact between the walls again, which were not as wide on this side of the lake, as they concealed passageways, not houses. They ascended in silence. He knew that Madame Giry was angry with him, but he could not bring himself to regret his sharp words in the boat. Surely she knew that she had already asked too much? Still, he felt a familiar prickle of guilt as they reached the top of the stairs, and he glanced back, noting her troubled expression as they began to walk along another corridor. This one was hewn from the rock-face, rather than the familiar concrete of the cellars, and was no narrow that it brushed his shoulders.

"They say the lake is connected to the catacombs," she said, which explained her apprehension.

"Ah, yes," he said as they reached yet another door. "The ballet rats certainly have fertile imaginations, but I'm afraid the truth is much more prosaic. Mine are the only bones you'll meet down here." Admittedly it was not very reassuring, but old habits died hard.

By way of apology, he held the door open, allowing Madame Giry first venture into the room beyond. It was damp and dirty, with a small window at the far end, smeared with whitewash to prevent people from peering in. Only the door itself, which was concealed by an old French dresser, distinguished the room from an ordinary cellar. Again, Erik showed her the mechanism that revealed its true function. "Attached to another alarm," he said, "so you needn't worry about me hearing it. I will likely arrive at the jetty before you do."

He left the precaution of having two alarms unspoken; if she betrayed his secret, then he would have fair warning, and he had ways of approaching the jetty without being seen.

"Are we still in the opera house?" she asked.

"No, we are in a building on the other side of the rue Scribe." he said, leading her into a connected room, this one containing a rickety staircase. "I have owned it for a number of years. You have only to go upstairs and you will find the front door quite easily. It will bring you out between the watchmakers and the haberdashery on the corner. Should you wish to send word from your niece's house you can address your letters to number 23; I will receive them in the ordinary way." He hesitated for a moment, then removed a key from his breast pocket. "I have only trusted this key to one other person," he said quietly. "I hope that you are better at keeping your promises than they were."

He held it out, and Madame Giry took it, disconcerted by his words, which seemed both pleading and threatening.

"You should take the lamp," she said, awkwardly.

"That will not be necessary," he told her. "I am quite used to finding my way in the darkness. Goodbye, Madame Giry."

Nodding shakily, she turned and made her way upstairs.

Erik listened to the echo of her footsteps in the hallway above as his yellow eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could not think what she meant by it. A moment later, he heard the sound of the key turning in the lock, stiff and rusty from disuse, followed by a sudden gust of early morning air, which rushed down to meet him like another kind of ghost. There was a smattering of birdsong, of cart-wheels, and a church bell striking the hour. He savoured them. Madame Giry seemed to be hesitating on the front step. Perhaps wondering if she would ever come back. Unbidden came the thought that Christine might have done the same thing some months ago, but in reverse, baulking at the last moment as she contemplating fulfilling her promise.

Finally, the door was shut, and the air in the cellar quickly grew stale. Erik remained for a moment. He had his doubts about Madame Giry. It was not in his nature to be trusting, even less so now, as he remembered the calculating gleam in her eyes and wondered what she was really plotting. Whatever it was was, he had no option but to go along with it, unless he could come up with an alternative plan of his own.

On this troubling thought, he turned and made his way quietly back home.

* * *

><p>After ensuring that the girl had not stirred during his absence, Erik left again, paying another visit to the kitchens. He knew from experience that walking skeletons did not make appealing housepets. Therefore, if the girl was to have any chance of being adopted into an ordinary family, she would need to be given something a little more substantial than hot broth, whatever Madame Giry's thoughts on the matter.<p>

Porridge, he decided, would be a good start.

It was approaching five o'clock when he returned, arms laden with ingredients. After putting them away, he delayed the task of making breakfast in order to light the fires, hoping to warm the rooms through before the girl woke up. It was very poor host that allowed his guests to freeze to death. Once that was accomplished, he went back into the kitchen and set to work on the range.

They were old enemies. Although it was apparently designed for convenience (at least according to the brochures he had perused) in practice the range was a temperamental beast that accumulated quite extraordinary amounts of soot and grease in comparison to its use. Even the slightest residue of these things interfered with the conduction of heat and rendered the whole contraption quite useless. So, before he could even think about cooking, he was obliged to rake out the ashes and clean the flues thoroughly with stiff brush. It was filthy work. After he had finished, he threw a twist of paper and some coal into the firebox, set them alight, and went to see about some clean clothes, leaving the range to its own nefarious devices.

First, a different suit. He selected one that was formal but less imposing than his usual ghostly raiment. Afterward, he lingered for a while in the props department, considering whether now might be a good time to experiment with a false nose and moustache. He could pretend to be someone else entirely, which would solve the thorny problem of explaining his previous behaviour to the girl. But the false nose had not been a great success in the past. On the few occasions he had used it to venture beyond the confines of the opera house, his pallid complexion and gaunt frame had, on their own terms, been quite enough to draw gasps and startled laughter from passer-by. _There goes proof that the dead sometimes walk! _Shuddering at the memory, he settled upon a mask of white kid leather, moulded into the features that nature had not seen fit to provide. The overall effect was only slightly less unsettling, but it was the best he could do.

As he passed through the bedroom he felt his other Christine watching him. Although it crossed his mind to hurry away without acknowledging her, when he reached the door he found himself compelled to look back.

Her gaze was dark and accusing. Of course, she was angry with him for postponing the wedding, which admittedly was not the behaviour of a gentleman. But they had spoken about this already. If she wanted the marriage to be a success, then he needed to settle his affairs properly before… before they were wed.

He opened his mouth to tell her this, but found himself suddenly inarticulate. Heat rose in his withered cheeks as he surveyed the wider scene. He did not have time to delve into the reasons for his embarrassment, as a moment later it was replaced by a wave of nausea. When it subsided it was as though the world had tilted slightly upon its axis, letting a veil slip aside to reveal quite a different scene - a vision of what the room might now contain, had the girl's presence in the third cellar gone undetected. He blinked it away, but that did not remove the sight of the coffin, or the noose which dangled before it.

He left the room without a word, and locked the door behind him.

The range had heated up nicely in his absence. Drawing off one glove, he tested the hot-plate before setting down a saucepan, to which he added a cup of porridge oats and the milk that was left over from Madame Giry's tea; he did not often store fresh dairy products in his lair, but they kept perfectly well in the coolness of the scullery.

As he waited for the mixture to come to a sluggish boil, he found himself tormented by the same macabre vision as before. He distracted himself by considering the practicalities of the next fortnight. If he were to retain even a tenuous grip on sanity, then he would have to proceed on the assumption that Madame Giry _would_ return, whatever his suspicions, but that hardly answered the question of what to do with the girl in the meantime. Clearly, he could not allow her to resume her cleaning duties, but if he were to simply lock himself in his room - not, at this moment, an appealing prospect - and leave her own devices, then who knew what sort of mischief she might get up to? There would have to be a schedule of some kind. A series of tasks, to keep them from going mad, and prevent any unseemly developments. He considered this as he continued to stir. He was a good teacher - was there any mileage in that? Madame Giry had implied that that the girl's feral, presumably uneducated state would be a hindrance to adoption. Perhaps he could make some attempt at remedying the problem...

He had no idea where he might start. He was certainly no expert in theories of education pertaining to small children, although there might be something on the subject in his library. He relaxed slightly. After he had made breakfast, he would do some research, and then at least he could face the inevitable confrontation feeling prepared.

_Plink._

Erik nearly dropped the spoon. He set it down carefully and listened, wondering if he had imagined the sound. There was a long silence, and then-

_Plink-plink. _

Someone was playing his pianoforte. Or rather, as the tuneless jumble of notes began to grow in confidence, if not execution, someone was _murdering_ his pianoforte. He realised, with a sinking feeling, that the girl was already awake. He winced at one particularly cacaphonic attempt to hold down as many keys as possible at the same time. Certainly, she was making herself at home!

Moving the saucepan off the heat, he crept slowly as far as the entrance to the parlour. As he suspected, the girl was sitting on the piano bench, poking at one key and then another with no particular regard for might constitute a pleasant noise. Erik bristled, like a cat whose fur had been ruffled in the wrong direction, but he made no attempt to silence the impromptu concert, however painful the assault upon his eardrums.

Instead, he watched, an idea slowly forming.

After a few minutes he drew attention to his presence with a quiet cough. The girl sprang to her feet as if he had caught her in the act of tearing strips from the wallpaper, and stood beside the instrument, her cheeks flushed with shame.

"I apologise if I startled you," he said. "What you are doing is not forbidden."

The girl was now staring at the floor. Erik took the opportunity to appraise her appearance. To his relief, she was clearly able to dress herself, although Meg Giry's cast-offs left much to be desired. In her faded grey dress and white apron she resembled a convent girl, pinched and prayed into submission. It troubled him for some reason he could not quite put his finger on, as did her sudden flinch when he took a step closer. He paused, waiting for her to look at him.

"You are admiring my pianoforte," he said, when it became clear that she was not going to cease her inspection of the carpet. "A marvellous invention. This one is Italian made, with a soundboard of red spruce, which you'll agree has a wonderful tone. Very clear, very clean." He took another step, and this time she did not take fright, so he continued his slow progress toward the instrument. "Of course," he said, "it is not suitable for grand compositions, but for lighter pieces it is quite excellent." He indicated the bench. "May I?"

Taking her silence for acquiescence, he sat down and flexed his fingers before playing a number of impressive runs. "Sounds rather intimidating, does it not? But even the most complex arrangements can be broken down into their individual components. That's the trick, you see." He broke off and played a number of staccato notes with his index finger. "It is a little like writing a book. Each note represents a letter, and each letter invites others into what is known as a chord. A gathering of notes." He repositioned his fingers and played the first three chords on the scale. "A, B, C. And once you have learned them, you can put them together in all manner of combinations to express feelings and impressions. You can even use them to tell stories." Another pause, gauging her reaction with a sidelong glance. "Would you like to hear one?"

They met one another's gaze. Erik, with his head tilted slightly and his fingers poised above the keys, and the girl, who with furtive interest was leaning against the body of the piano.

"Listen," he said.

He could have chosen any number of well-known tunes to demonstrate his point, but instead he returned to the last thing he had played. Christine's song. After the first few bars he felt the knot between his shoulder-blades begin to loosen, but he did not allow the music to envelope him as it had done before. He was conscious, this time, of the girl's proximity, and of little fingers that might snatch away his mask.

"What's it about?" she asked him.

His fingers stilled, the mask concealing his surprise. So she was not a mute after all. "About?"

"The story," she said. "I mean - what happens in it?"

It was a quiet, uncertain voice, with an inflection he could not immediately place. Polish, perhaps? He would draw it out later. For now, he returned to the beginning of the song, extending the introduction as he searched his memory for the words of the original poem. It was not quite as straightforward as simply reciting them, as setting them to music was not a process of direct translation. It relied more on feelings and impressions than upon something as inferior as speech.

"It is about about a girl named Little Lotte," he began, somewhat hesitant, "who thought of everything and nothing. She… she lived in a cottage on the edge of the forest. Red, with a little turf roof, like… green velvet…"

He closed his eyes, describing the scene the music conjured, and soon the words came freely. "In summer, she would climb onto it, and from this turf throne she would listen to all the music of her kingdom... the gurgling brooks… bumblebees drowsing through the hedgerows… and in the forest, a symphony of birds."

Having evoked these things, he changed tempo, the notes becoming quiet and sombre. "But no bird sings when winter comes," he said, keeping his voice very low. "There is only the snow… falling soft and thick… shrouding the little cottage in silence… Lotte sits by the stove for hours and hours, humming little songs of summer… although she forgets the tune… and this causes her to grow sad." He opened his eyes to see if the girl still followed, and found her standing in solemn contemplation. "Until one day… she hears a tapping at the window."

Immediately her expression brightened. "A visitor?"

"A small one, yes." He found the interruption irritating, but let it pass. "A little bird - a sparrow, in fact - seeking shelter from the bitter cold. Of course, Lotte wheedled her father into letting the bird inside… she brought it close to the stove where it could fluff out its feathers and get the feeling back into its wings. It was wary at first, as wild creatures often are... but in time she won its trust... and it grew so tame that it would take the seed from her fingers…. and perch on her shoulder to sing all the songs of summer that she had so longed to hear again... But when spring arrived, the bird sat silent in its little cage, and turned its beak away from all the tempting food she brought it."

He stopped playing, having run out of notes, and the girl looked at him enquiringly. "You see," he explained, "the bird could hear the songs of its own kind starting up again in the forest... and if it were to live… well, it needed the freedom to join them."

"And then what happened?"

"I'm afraid I do not know the rest," he lied, recalling, rather too late, his reasons for abandoning the composition in the first place. He cast about for a means of distracting her. "Perhaps you could tell me?" he suggested.

She thought for a moment, her expression grave. "I think she lets it go. And then when winter comes back, so does the bird, only this time with lots more songs to sing…"

He turned away. That was not how the story ended, but oh, how he had tried to bend it that way. He remembered how, when Christine left his lair for the first time, she had promised to come back and visit her poor, unhappy Erik. And for a short while, he had believed her attachment to be genuine, not born of fear and pity. Hearing the girl voice these feelings, however unintentionally, caused something to bloom inside his chest, painfully, like a rose with more thorns than petals. It was so overpowering that for a time he was barely sensible of the fact that the girl was still talking; some nonsense about nests and choirs of baby birds.

And then, out of nowhere, another question. "Can you play it?"

He blinked. "Play what?"

"The rest of the story," she explained, "now that I've told you how it ends."

Erik was tempted to retort that he preferred her as a mute, but he knew that would be unkind. Besides, her obvious penchant for stories had given him a useful opening.

"If that is the case," he said, "then you should be the one to write it."

"But I can't play!"

"I had noticed that," he said drily, "however, there are other ways of telling stories, or rather, other ways of capturing them. In books, for instance. I could teach you… if you like?"

The solemn look returned as she considered his proposition. After a moment, his efforts were rewarded by a smile, revealing a full set of surprisingly white teeth. Something tugged at the corners of his own mouth.

"Excellent," he said. "After breakfast, we shall begin."


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: I've made a couple of edits to the previous chapter, taking out the references to 'Sylvia' as it just wasn't sitting right. As you'll see I've gone for something slightly less original, but I think its… neater? Something like that (I have The Actual Plague so everything's a bit woozy right now). Anyway, apologies for these changes - unfortunately they come with the territory of posting a first draft! I'll try and keep them to a minimum from now on though. On which note - we're past the halfway point now. Bearing in mind that it might expand in the writing, the current synopsis stands at 12 chapters. Just in case you needed to know that. Blech. Phlegm.**

**Thank you again to everyone who has taken the time to write a review. I'm rubbish at articulating stuff like this, especially when high on cough syrup, but it really does mean a lot :-)**

**Anyway...**

VII

There had been a library in the house where he was born, or rather, the ruins of one. It had belonged to the aristocrats who had built the chateau in the halcyon days of the old regime. After the Revolution, the chateau and its grand library had languished in decay for almost forty years, until his father had purchased them with dreams of restoring the estate to its former glory. But his father had always been prone to rush into things. Only after the ink had dried on the hastily signed contract did he finally visit the property and see with his own eyes what forty years of decay actually meant.

Gaspard Delacroix was the owner of a rotting corpse. And soon, he would be the father of one.

Plans to demolish the old chateau and build another in its place were quietly put away after Erik's birth, and for several years Delacroix frittered away his savings on repairs that slowed rather than halted its degradation. By the time Erik was old enough to explore the chateau himself, only the west wing was deemed habitable, at least, by anyone other than its smallest ghost.

He remembered the night he found the library. He was perhaps the girl's age, or a little older. He remembered the the way the moonlight shafted through a hole in the ceiling where the water had got in, and through the tattered drapes, casting lacy patterns on the walls. Debris littered the floor, bits of crumbling plaster and rotten wood; the paint had blistered and black mould bloomed out of one corner, having already begun its indomitable creep toward the door. He remembered all of these things, but had thought them quite ordinary at that time, for the decaying house had been his world entire.

Besides, something much more interesting had caught his attention.

No-one had ever thought of teaching Erik to read. Neglected as he was, he did not even know the word for the queer objects that lined the shelves in their hundreds, and even when he did, it would take many more years for him to decipher the arcane symbols they contained. But somehow, even then, he sensed their importance, feeling - _knowing _- that what he held in his hands in the moonlight was a key to the world beyond.

In time, of course, he would learn that he could never truly belong to that world. But the girl was different. If he could teach her the forging of that key-

Well, it was the least that he could do.

Not that he did so without trepidation. Madame Giry had implied that the girl was somewhat feral, and it crossed Erik's mind that it might not be possible to teach her, but he soon found himself pleasantly surprised. Far from being unteachable, she was well-mannered and intelligent and eager to please. Admittedly, this latter trait was probably borne of sheer terror, but as the days passed her nervousness subsided, revealing glimpses of the bright and talkative creature she would no doubt blossom into when she was found a proper home. This was nowhere more evident than in her love of stories. Even he found himself amused by her irreverent tales, particularly those concerning the people who lived in the wallpaper that decorated her bedroom. He had never given its _joie de toile_ design a second thought, except to ensure that it was similar to that in his mother's bedroom, from which the furniture had been taken, and yet the girl was soon acquainted with every figure - even the windmills had names!

They soon settled into a routine. Days were largely spent in the dining room, where a school of sorts had taken shape, and evenings were whiled away in the library, where he had taken to sleeping in the chair by the fire, and where the girl would spend a few hours after supper, stretched out on the hearth rug, drawing pictures, playing with her doll, or poring over the illustrations in his books.

On these nights it was frighteningly easy to imagine that this cosy domesticity was real, that she was a daughter, perhaps, playing at her father's feet in an ordinary middle-class home. No mother, of course - was he a widower? That was always the poison, for his thoughts would invariably progress to his other Christine, and he would step quickly back from the precipice.

But still, she managed to peel back his carapace in other, more insidious ways.

"What are these letters?" she asked him one night, drawing closer with a book he vaguely recognised.

He took it from her and let his gaze wander over the leaping dots and dashes of its script. They seemed to dance across the pages, stirring old memories. "Farsi," he murmured.

"It looks funny."

"That is because the Persians who speak it use a different alphabet," he explained. "And different words, too. Listen. _Har kas ke bedanad va bedanad ke bedanad, asb-e kherad az gombad-e gardun bejahanad._ That is Farsi. If I were to say the same thing in French, I would say, _Anyone who knows, and knows that he knows, makes the steed of intelligence leap over the vault of heaven. _Do you see?"

"No." Her nose wrinkled doubtfully. "How do _you _see it?"

"I read Farsi before I read French," he said.

Even as the words left his mouth, Erik was surprised by them. His illiteracy had been a source of intense shame that lasted until his arrival in Mazandaran at the age of something close to twenty, when the Daroga had seen fit to begin teaching him the language of its court. Erik had consented to be taught because there was no shame in a Westerner not knowing such an obscure tongue, but he had been a surly and ungrateful pupil, still seeking to hide his original ignorance. If the Daroga had ever guessed the truth then he had not mentioned it, perhaps in the same way that he turned a blind eye when Erik had begun his sly acquisition of French translations, which enabled him, finally, to decipher the symbols he had encountered in his father's library almost twenty years before.

Some of its volumes had even made their way into the house by the lake: the survivors of the black mould, which had almost consumed the chateau by the time he returned from Persia. His gaze drifted across the bookshelves for a moment, searching for them.

"When I was your age I could not understand the letters of my _native_ language, let alone Farsi," he said, tearing his gaze away to offer the girl what he hoped was an encouraging smile. "In fact, you have a very generous head start in that respect."

_Think of what you could do with it,_ he wanted to add, but he was mindful of putting too much pressure on the girl. Bright as she was, he could not expect fluency in a fortnight.

Instead, he took a simpler approach, as he had done with Christine. He set her the challenge of writing her own version of the song he had played for her on the pianoforte. Spurred on by this, she made rapid progress, and by the end of the first week she knew her alphabet and had learned a number of words by sight. She was even beginning to grasp the basic principles of phonetics, leading him to the suspicion that, as with Christine and her father, the girl had once been taught by someone else.

But who? She had been in his care for ten days, and there had been no clues. She had not even told him her name. _Happen she wants to forget_, Madame Giry had said. He did not know if this was true. In the end he decided that it was easier to simply teach and leave such mysteries to her adoptive parents. He did not want to risk growing attached to the girl.

As her command in letters grew in confidence he began casting about for different ways of using them. He remembered that there was an old printing press languishing in a neglected corner of the Communard's dungeon. He had found it shortly after the Commune's fall, along with stacks of political pamphlets they had obviously intended to distribute before their uprising had been so brutally crushed. They had been particularly useful for lighting fires. As for the press itself, it was small, fairly basic contraption, clearly designed for amateur use. He never thought to use it himself, but the collector in him had kept as a curiosity.

Which was just as well. Evidently, one could never be sure when these things would come in handy.

And so one day at the beginning of the second week he dragged it upstairs and heaved it onto the dining table. The girl was fascinated and peppered him with questions, which he answered as best he could, although in truth his knowledge of printing presses was confined to a single entry in the _Enyclopédie_ which was more than a hundred years out of date. Luckily she was too excited by the prospect of turning her story into a book to notice his ignorance on the subject, and her questions were soon forgotten in favour of making additions to the story and telling him of the many sequels she was planning.

They spent a long afternoon bringing the press back into working order. It had rusted terribly in the dank cellar, so had to be dismantled for cleaning, the mechanisms scoured with lamp-black and grease before being painstakingly reassembled. It was even filthier than the range and, as the girl had precious few clean clothes to change into, Erik set her to work organising the typecase, whose contents had become hopelessly jumbled. By the time she was done every available surface was covered in small piles of tiny metal letters. Erik helped her to put them back in their compartments, and together they assembled a mock-up of the book's frontispiece.

"You're quite sure of the title?" he asked as he adjusted the placing of several letters on a sheet of manuscript paper.

She nodded, reciting it in the queer, sing-song voice he had come to understand denoted excitement. "Lotte's Book of Everything and Nothing."

It had been his suggestion, in fact, as the contents of the book had expanded quite ambitiously beyond the confines of the original poem. He looked down at the letters again, and something fluttered at the back of his mind.

"We're missing something," he said.

"What?"

"Your name. Every book has an author." He looked at her warily, but she did not meet his gaze as keenly as usual. In fact she seemed deeply troubled, so he quickly abandoned the ploy. "Of course many books are published anonymously, if that is what you wish. Unless you would like to use a nom de plume? That is quite quite common too." Her expression turned quizzical. "It means that an author chooses a new name for the purpose of publishing a book, ergo, the book has an author, while the author's true identity remains a secret. What name would you choose?"

She thought about it. "Can it be anything?"

"Anything you wish."

"Well, then… I want to be…" She screwed her eyes shut for a moment, and then opened them with an epiphanous grin. "Lotte. I want to be Lotte."

He snorted. "You cannot use that name."

"Why not?"

"Because you have already used it in the title."

"You said it could be anything!" she retorted, with a little flair of temper that he found oddly endearing. "And besides, it's Lotte's book, isn't it? I don't think another name would make sense."

He was forced to concede. "Very well. But there should be a surname too, if you want to sound respectable." He considered the matter, then tore a strip from the bottom of the manuscript paper and scribbled down several more letters along with their quantities. "Here, fetch these."

She hesitated for a moment, counting the tallies beside each letter, and then scampered back to the typecase to look for them. Meanwhile, Erik trimmed another sheet of manuscript paper down to size and loaded it into the printing press, before smearing a stiff mixture of blacking and shoe polish over the inking plate - it would do the job for now, in the absence of the original printer's ink. When the girl had finished, he brought the form to the table and showed her, with assistance from the diagrams in the _Enyclopédie_, how to fix the letters in place. Some measure of experimentation followed as they tried to load the form back into the press and work the treadle. Eventually they produced something that resembled the frontispiece of a book. It was misaligned and the blacking had smudged slightly, but otherwise it was perfectly legible, at least to him.

"What does it say?" she asked.

"Why don't you tell me?" he suggested, passing her the sheet. "You know the title, for a start."

She lay it on the dining room table, her fingers moving beneath the familiar words. "Lotte's Book of Everything and Nothing," she began, then paused when she came to the next line, searching for the words he had taught her to read by sight, and trying to sound out the others, with less success. "The c- o- the coll- the-"

"The Collected Works…"

"Of?"

He nodded. "Of…"

"Lotte d- e- de… G- a- an- a-" She shook her head in frustration. "I can't," she said.

"Nonsense," he said. "You were doing very well. Some words are more difficult than others, and not all of them sound the way they are spelled, but they will come with practice." He placed his index finger beneath the word in question. "_Garnier._ You see?"

"Is that your name?"

"Certainly not!" He stepped back, suddenly aware of their proximity. "I am simply Erik."

"Why?"

"Because I have less need of respectability than you, _Lotte de Garnier_, and also, even retired ghosts must retain an air of mystery."

Before she could assail him with another volley of questions, they were interrupted by the chimes of the parlour clock, and the girl scurried through to see what time it was, a skill she had yet to master.

"It's one o'clock!" she called to him.

"I highly doubt it," he replied, wiping his hands on a rag and following her through, where he was surprised to discover that she had read the time correctly. "Ah. Well, in that case it is dreadfully past your bedtime. I suppose I had better make you supper first, although…" He paused for a moment, belatedly recalling that the larder was empty. "Would you like to come for a walk?"

"Where are you going?"

"To visit your kingdom, of course," he said, with a vague flourish in the direction of the ceiling as he pulled on a clean pair of gloves. "Garnier's palace. It will be quite empty at this time of night. Not only have you eaten me out of house and home, our little foray into publishing has quite decimated my supplies of manuscript paper, and I must replace them if we are to continue are lessons - or if you are to continue gorging yourself."

He paused to measure her reaction and raised one eyebrow when he saw what she was doing. He supposed she could not see this, so he flattened his tone for good measure.

"I will take that odd little dance to mean that you consent," he said. "Now come on."

* * *

><p>Their excursion began promisingly enough. After making their way swiftly through the third cellar and emerging into the deserted corridors of the administration block, Erik made quick work of his errands, pilfering food from the kitchens, manuscript paper from the chorus-master's office, and several yards of fabric from the costume department. He had no intention of the girl leaving his care dressed in pauper's clothes.<p>

Afterwards, he showed her the auditorium, where she skeltered across the stage like a kitten after a ball of spring, deaf to his lecture on the building's architectural merits. By rights this should have irritated him, but instead he found himself watching indulgently as she explored. She made a brief foray into the orchestra pit before clambering down into the stalls, where she finally settled into one of the velvet chairs and tipped back her head to marvel at the restored chandelier, which glittered as it caught the light from his lantern.

Erik was less enthralled, particularly by the chandelier, but he did not begrudge her amazement, or fail to provide answers to her many questions about the function of the opera house. It was refreshing to see it through a pair of new eyes. It had been many years since he had seen it as anything more than a gilded cage or, when the mood took him, an elaborate tomb. But to the girl it was no less than a castle in the clouds. From a distance, she had seen great ladies and gentleman enter it, dressed in all their finery, and from this she had deduced that the Palais Garnier was a royal residence, and he its king.

That had been enough to make him laugh out loud, a sound that startled them both, and he was quick to remind her of his correct title.

"But you're not a real ghost," she said, climbing out of the seat as he made his way slowly down the aisle.

"No," he admitted, coming to a halt in front of her. "I suppose not."

"You're Erik."

He gave a tight nod as she scrutinized him, her keen gaze lingering on his mask in away that made want to raise his hands and check that it was properly in place. But then a moment later she smiled and continued on a different train of thought, telling him of how, in the summer just passed, she had sometimes slept beneath a rose bush in the Tuileries Gardens. "It was near the pond," she said, "and you could hear the frogs at night, singing croaky songs, and there was a story grandmother told me about a princess with a golden ball, and it fell into a pond and a frog rescued it!"

"Indeed?"

"Yes, and her father - the king - well, he made her bring the frog to a ball, at least… I think that's what happened… I don't really remember the rest except that she kissed the frog and it turned into prince. I had a dream once about how I was the princess and instead of a ball there was great big feast, with frangipane and baked apples and macarons and _three hundred_ different kinds of jelly in all the colours-"

He smiled in spite of himself. "And figs, too, I suppose?"

"Oh yes, figs too. Lots of them." She paused, looking slightly abashed by the allusion to her thievery. When she spoke again it was in a subdued tone. "They were always gone when I woke up, I mean, until…"

She trailed off, and although he was intrigued by her mention of a grandmother, he was unprepared for a discussion that might lead them to the third cellar. Thus far they had avoided any discussion of those events, and he would have preferred to keep it that way. He cleared his throat. "There is a ballroom here too," he said, steering the conversation back to a safer port. "Although they call it something different. If you like, we can come back another day and visit it."

"Can't we go now?"

He shook his head, checking the time on his pocket watch. It was almost three. "Tomorrow, perhaps. It really is time you were in bed."

"But I'm not tired!"

"And that is precisely the problem." He snapped the watch shut and slid it back into his breast pocket. "You are keeping very peculiar hours, my flea, which of course makes no difference to me, but I am sure your new family will expect you to follow a more traditional schedule."

She looked confused, and Erik silently berated himself. In his effort to avoid the subject, he had failed to explain the new terms of her residency. He had hoped that she would simply understand from his polite and solicitous behaviour that things had changed. It seemed clear from her expression that no such realisation had occurred.

"You thought that you were still a prisoner," he said quietly. "I am sorry. Please, put all notion of that out of your mind. You are my guest now, but you will not have to suffer Erik's company much longer. Madame Giry is already making arrangements for you to be adopted."

The girl was frowning. What had been intended as reassurance had evidently fallen flat. In fact, he was not even sure that the girl understood what he was saying.

"You mean…" Her frown deepened. "You mean Madame Giry is coming to take me away?"

"That is correct," he said, relieved that she grasped the situation. "Hopefully within the next few days. So you see, you liberation is close at hand." Judging from the girl's stricken expression, she was still not convinced. He wondered if a little levity might save the day. "And when Madame Giry returns, she will take a very dim view of me turning you nocturnal." He followed with a ghastly smile.

Silence still, and a new expression, one that he could not discern.

He shifted uncomfortably. "We had better return."

She did not utter a single word as they made their way back below ground. Erik felt a stirring unease, but decided to attribute her silence to exhaustion. It was, after all, very late, and when they arrived at the house by the lake she went to her room without protest. When he looked in on her a short while later the lump beneath the bedclothes did not stir, and he was satisfied that, come the morrow, his little faux pas would be entirely forgotten.

It was only when she presented her sullen face at breakfast that he began to realise the extent of the calamity.

As the week wore on things grew steadily worse. She ceased making progress in her lessons, ceased her lessons entirely, in fact, and worst of all, she started _cleaning things_ again. The only logical conclusion was that the girl still believed herself to be a prisoner, despite his blundering attempts at reassurance. Did she think he was somehow testing her? It was possible. He imagined that children were wont to all sorts of strange notions, especially under such traumatic circumstances.

In light of this, he tried everything to convince her of his good intentions, reminding her, with gentle frequency, of Madame Giry's imminent return. He even encouraged her to read the letter that preceded the good woman's arrival, which contained the assurance that a suitable family had indeed been found.

If anything, this only made things worse, and in the end he retreated from her silence into one of his own, spending the remaining days making up dresses from the fabric he had taken from the costume department. Another miscalculation. When he attempted to present the dresses as a peace offering, suggesting that she wore one of them on her departure, the girl burst into tears and fled to her room.

There she remained until Madame Giry's arrival.

"She likes you," was the woman's absurd conclusion as they took tea in the parlour the following night.

Erik had explained the disastrous turn of events, perhaps leaving out certain details about _precisely_ why he thought she might be upset, but he thought he had made the girl's distress quite obvious. And so he sneered as he leaned forward and placed another eclair upon her plate. "I would have thought that bursting into tears and hiding beneath the bedclothes was indicative of quite the opposite."

"You said it yourself," she said, giving a little shrug. "She seemed happy enough before you mentioned the adoption."

"Well of course she tried to put on a brave face at first," Erik said, irritated by her attitude. "They always do, no doubt from sheer terror of displeasing me, but the effort has clearly driven her to the brink of a nervous breakdown. I have seen this happen before. Dammit, woman, I am the Opera Ghost! Nobody _likes_ me."

"I do."

"What's that?"

"Like you, after a fashion."

"After a-" He blinked. "Then you are a fool," he countered. Her declaration had struck its mark, which made him respond with a barb of his own. "And you are an even greater fool if you think that for one moment I was ignorant of your deception."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she began, "and I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in-"

"How is your niece, by the way?" he asked icily. "You must remind me of her husband's name. I would like to send my own felicitations on the birth of their child."

There was a tense pause. Madame Giry noted his hard, interrogatory look and squared her jaw defiantly. "I have done everything you asked. How I went about it is none of your business."

"So you admit it, then?"

"I have found the girl a family."

"But there was never a niece whose childbed you were called to attend, am I right?" He was determined to extract the truth, even if he had no hope of understanding it. "You have been in Paris all this time." She did not issue confirmation either way but pursed her lips more tightly, and Erik forced himself to remain at least outwardly calm. "I thought as much. You concocted a story that would allow you to stay away while you made your arrangements, in the hope that - what? That I would grow fond of the girl? That we would form an attachment?"

"If you want me to speak plainly-"

"That is all I ask."

"If you want me to speak plainly then I will tell you again that nobody of quality - if by quality you mean the sort that keep pianofortes and go for Sunday walks - will have anything to do with the girl. I have found a farmer and his wife who are willing. They've taken in strays before, and they'll treat her like one of their own, but she'll be expected to earn her keep, and there'll be nothing fancy about her prospects. If you ask me she's better off staying with you. You have the room and the means, for a start. And if you ask me the company would do you good."

Erik was agog. "Have you lost your mind completely? I told you a fortnight ago, the girl will not be safe with me! I am a monster!"

"She's come to no harm so far."

"She is traumatised!"

"She's sulking."

Insufferable woman. If this was how she behaved when she actually _liked _someone - after a fashion, indeed - then he could almost feel sympathy for the directors! Luckily, before he could lose what tenuous grip he still held on his temper , they were interrupted by a creak of floorboards in the girl's room. He listened, hearing nothing further, but taking the opportunity to school his thoughts, which were discombobulated at best. Anger was the presiding emotion. Bafflement tripped its heels, followed by another he could not as readily identify, but which had sprung, he was sure, from her earlier declaration. Poor, foolish creature. Evidently she believed him to be some kind of lonely genius in need of rescue. He knew the honourable thing would have been to correct this naive assumption, but he found himself strangely unwilling. It was not just that he still needed her help. No, he was was comforted by the notion that at least one person would think of him fondly after… well, _afterwards_. Not that she seemed the type to think fondly of anyone. They were an odd pair.

Some of this turmoil must have been evident in his mien, because when Madame Giry spoke again her tone was considerable softer, although her words were still troubling.

"You said this has happened before?"

"Did I?" Damnation this was not going well. "Of course, I - I meant as a general rule. My appearance, you understand - among other things - ah -"

Her gaze was rheumy and sympathetic. "Then it's true, what they say about your face?"

He nodded helplessly, unable to meet her gaze, but keeping a sharp eye on her hands, which he paranoically feared might make a sudden lunge for his mask.

"Yes, it's true."

"I thought so." She let out a heavy sigh. Erik continued his watchful observation as she brushed the crumbs from her skirt. "In fact I do have a niece in the country," she said. "And a nephew. He was… born different. They told my sister in law to send him away to some kind of institution, but she refused. He was still her baby whatever they said. He's a man now, and he's… well, he's happy enough in his own way, and very much loved by us that know him. What I'm trying to say is that people can be cruel, but not everyone is. You don't have to hide yourself away down here. You have as much right to live in the world as anyone else."

He felt an odd spasm in his chest but was compelled to ignore it. "If only it were that simple," he said ruefully. "I'm afraid there are other things keeping me down here, quite apart from what lies beneath this mask… but I confess, your good opinion of me, however misguided, is not something I wish to lose by making those reasons plain. Please. Let us speak no more of it."

He half-expected her to argue, but this time she had the good sense to see that he was in earnest, and although her disappointment was palpable, she made no further attempt to convince him to let the girl stay.

Instead, they spent the next hour discussing the practicalities of the adoption. It was agreed that she would write to the farmer in question, accepting his offer, and then return to collect the girl on Saturday evening, two days hence. In the meantime he would make arrangements for a private carriage so that she could make the journey in a single day and be back in time to resume her concierge duties on Monday morning. Although he did not exactly relish the prospect of venturing beyond the walls of the opera house, and Madame Giry was no doubt perfectly capable of hiring her own carriage, he would have to leave its confines anyway to visit his banker and a solicitor, for the purpose of settling his will. Allowances needed to be made for the girl's upkeep and further education, not to mention compensation for the many troubles Madame Giry had endured over the years. As for the rest of his sizable fortune, he would return it to the Opera's management in the form of an anonymous donation.

He would inform his solicitor that he was suffering from some kind of fatal condition - heart disease, perhaps - and that his death should be imminently expected. There was no reason to tarry after the girl's departure. And if he made this declaration in person, he had no doubt that he would be believed.

There were, after all, some advantages to looking like a corpse.

Of course, he did not share this decision with Madame Giry. They discussed only what concerned the girl's welfare, and once these arrangements were made, there was little more to say as he rowed her back across the still and greasy waters of the lake. The silence between them was not entirely comfortable, however, and he could see that there was something else on her mind.

"Has it ever occurred to you," she said when they reached the jetty, "that there might be worse monsters out there?"

He did not reply, but her parting words perturbed him as he returned to the house on the lake. Of course he knew that the world was full of monsters. He had met his fair share over the years, but that did not make his own actions less monstrous. No, that was not what troubled him… it seemed, rather, that Madame Giry had been referring to something more specific, something that hovered just beyond his comprehension.

It hardly mattered now. He sighed, and began to clear away the tea things.

A few moments later he became aware of a different sound issuing from the girl's room. He did not recognise it at first, but as he stepped into the library to listen at her door his heart sank. She was crying again. After lingering for several minutes, he turned and quietly carried the tea tray into the kitchen, where he was glad of the noisily rushing water as he rinsed the cups and saucers.

It was perhaps better this way, but, although he not been willing to disclose as much to Madame Giry, he had grown rather fond of the girl, and it wounded him to listen to her misery, knowing that he could offer no comfort. Certainly his previous attempts had not been welcomed.

By the time he returned to the library her sobs had abated slightly, becoming little more than spasmodic gasps. That was good. He sank into the wingback chair, exhausted beyond measure, to begin his customary vigil, and cast his drooping gaze into the fire's embers.

But although diminished, the girl's cries had not entirely subsided, and as weariness overtook him they wound their way into bleak and fretful dreams.


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: As always, thank you very much for the kind reviews and follows for the last chapter. I'm sorry this one is a little late - in my head it's sort of pivotal, which made it much more difficult to write, and to be honest I still have some small hatred of it (this being version 962 or some such). In fact I would dearly like to go back and redraft the entire story, as the problem with posting a first draft as it is written is that lots of things occur to me in retrospect and I have a horrible feeling I keep repeating certain turns of phrase. But I must keep Gaby1964's nerves in mind and save the changes for after the story is complete ;-)**

**Emmy6 - I did have a little moment of madness several weeks ago where I contemplated getting Erik and Madame Giry together. Thankfully I was in bed at the time, so I was able to lay down quietly until the urge passed. Rest assured their relationship will remain strictly platonic!**

**Also, thank you Horseland123 for the intriguing suggestion. I could see that working in a longer story but this one was quite tightly plotted in advance and there are only a couple of chapters left to go. You might like a certain incident in this chapter, though..**

VIII

He woke suddenly, disturbed by the rumble of a distant storm.

For a moment he thought the sound had been real. Owlishly he blinked about the room, seeking out its source, but nothing seemed out of place. A single lamp burned where he had left it on the bureau, and the had fire extinguished, telling him that several hours had passed. A deep silence had been left in its wake.

Perhaps he had dreamed of thunder.

Fragments returned as he closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the antimacassar. Windmills on the wall, their sails spinning, fine ladies with powdered wigs. And there was another lady, a living, breathing one, propped up in a large mahogany bed. His mother, reaching out a wasted arm toward him. He felt smaller somehow. In her hand she held a little embroidered mask.

_Only wear it_, she entreated, _and I can forget that you are another ghost come to haunt me. They lied to him, you know. They told him I killed you._

The words were fading, until they were little more than a faint resonance, of the kind that sometimes lingers above piano strings.

_You must find him…_

Discomforted, he got up and shuffled through into the parlour. It felt rather too early to be awake. Despite his claims of being nocturnal, in the past fews weeks his body clock had become quite conventional, and he could feel in the silence the heaviness which he had come to associate with the darkest part of the night, penetrating so many layers of earth and concrete.

A squint at the astronomical clock confirmed his suspicions: it was barely three in the morning. Perhaps a cup of camomile would convince his slowly stirring metabolism that it was not worth the effort of starting the day just yet. He went into the kitchen and attended the range, and was returning through the parlour with the intention of rekindling the library fire when something winked in his peripheral vision.

It was the girl's doll, splayed on the floor by the false wall. He could not remember seeing it when he had taken Madame Giry back across the lake, which was strange. Had she been creeping about whilst he slept? Frowning, he stooped to retrieve the doll and carried it back to her room, opening the door quietly so as not to disturb her slumber.

He found an empty bed.

Alarmed, he stepped fully into the room and looked around.

The covers had been pushed back haphazardly and the night-light was still burning on the stand. He checked quickly to see if she had fallen out of bed, giving momentary thought to the idea that she might be hiding from him, before his gaze fell on the bathroom door, which was firmly shut.

There was his answer. No doubt she had had gone to use the facilities, and the ensuing racket had startled him from his sleep. It served him right for not keeping the plumbing in better repair.

And yet he found himself approaching the door, unable to shake the nagging suspicion that something was badly wrong. He reached the door and tapped it lightly.

"Is everything alright?" he asked.

There was no answer and so he tapped again. "Are you in there? Lotte? Answer me!" Still silence. "If you do not answer then I shall be forced to open the door!" He thought that would frighten a response from her, but his bluff was called, and so he opened the door in trepidation, not quite sure what he expected to find.

Nothing, as it happened. The bathroom was empty.

Where the devil was she?

It struck him like a thunderbolt. The rumbling sound, the dropped doll. Even though he knew it was impossible he found himself turning on heel and striding urgently back through the rooms. He reached the parlour's false wall and stared at it for moment. Heart thumping, he tugged sharply on the lamp-stem and spun around to face the lake.

He saw nothing at first, only a ghostly blue light trembling across the water's surface, and the boat safely moored, bobbing gently against the jetty. Nothing was amiss. He took a deep breath and counselled himself to keep calm. The girl was most liking hiding in the wardrobe as he had first suspected. It was absurd to imagine that the girl had somehow managed to operate the mechanism. Indeed, it was impossible. She could not have reached the stem without-

A few metres from the jetty, the leg of a dining chair surfaced, revolving slowly in the gloom.

_No._

_No-no-no._

He dove into the murky depths without a second thought, using the chair's trajectory as a guide. For several minutes he groped blindly beneath the water, until he was forced to resurface, every breath of air like a dagger drawn into his starved lungs. He knew the odds were not in his favour. The lake was vast and he could not say with confidence how long she had been in the water; even if he managed to locate her, the chances of her surviving even a few minutes' submersion were slim.

But he forced such thoughts aside and dove back into the water again, and again, until on the fourth attempt he struck something that might have been a wrist or an ankle. He grappled for her torso, clamping her against him, then stretched out his long legs so that his heels scraped the bottom of the lake. He allowed himself to sink slightly before kicking back with all his might.

Breaking through the surface, Erik took several gulps of air before reaching out to grab the ring of the jetty. The girl was cold and limp against his chest. Grunting with exertion, he rolled her over the ledge, dragging himself out as he twisted the ring that operated the pivot. They swung swiftly back into the parlour.

_Please_, he thought, unsure who exactly he was entreating, and unable to articulate his plea beyond that single, desperate syllable. His heart was no longer thumping - it was pounding hard enough to crack ribs.

_Please._

He lay her on the rug beside the fire as he had on the night of her arrival. She had been pale then; now, as he fumbled with the lamps to get a better view, she was whiter than alabaster, except for a familiar darkness around her mouth that made his heart skip a painful beat.

_Please no._

Kneeling beside her, he placed two fists, one clasping the other, in the centre of her scrawny chest. He took a moment to steady himself, frightened of causing more injury, before he began a series of quick compressions, keeping a muttered count beneath his breath. He paused. Nothing. He started again, trying to ignore the mounting certainty that it was too late.

Halfway through the second set of compressions there was a gurgling sound, the sweetest he had ever heard, although it was forgotten a moment later when suddenly she began coughing up what seemed like gallons of fetid water. He urged her into a kneeling position and thumped her back with his free hand. As her stomach contents splattered against the hearth, it seemed to Erik that she had managed to swallow half the lake.

Finally her violent heaving subsided, and he gentled the hand between her shoulder blades to a rhythmic pat. His heart was still hammering against his ribs.

"Hush now," he murmured shakily. "It's alright, you're alright…"

She stiffened and looked back at him, as if she had until that moment been insensible of his presence. He supposed that was quite probable. Half a second later her eyes widened and he steeled himself for her scream, only to be caught off-guard when she flung herself at his chest and began to sob convulsively. There was no time for him to react. The force of her assault knocked him backwards, and only a hastily outstretched hand prevented him from being entirely flattened.

Erik found himself in a state of almost total petrification. She had been trying to escape, that much was obvious. Why then had she turned to him for comfort when her escape attempt had failed? Should she not be shrinking back in terror?

Bewildered, he glanced down at the top of her head, which she had burrowed into his armpit, and noted the desperate way she clutched at the sodden lapel of his waistcoat, her knuckles white and trembling. The fingers of her other hand had reached around his back and found painful purchase between certain ribs. And then he understood. It was not _him_ she drew comfort from. He was simply flotsam in a storm. She would recoil as soon as she gathered her wits enough to realise that she had taken refuge in the arms of her tormentor and not, as she no doubt imagined, in those of a kindly hydraulicien or some other benign denizen of the world above.

Past experience had taught him the prudence of withdrawing before this realisation occurred, but a stronger instinct told him that it would be wrong to push her away when her distress was so raw. He knew what she needed: an anchor of sorts. Whether or not he qualified mattered little for the time being. And so he remained for several minutes, patting her back and murmuring sympathetic nonsense. In truth, she was not the only one in need of comfort. He could not recall any event in his long life more terrifying than the moment he had pulled her limp and breathless body from the lake.

Until a bead of water trickled down from some crevice of his forehead, and he raised his hand to blot it away, and found bare skin instead.

His mask was gone.

He twisted his head, searching the floor in a silent panic, until he spotted it not far from the place where the girl had dropped her doll. It must have come loose as he dragged her onto the jetty. No wonder she had been startled! No, she must not have seen him properly. She must have been in shock after her ordeal. Yes, that was it. Shock. He kept very still, trying to think of some way of extricating himself without her seeing his face again. Some of this stillness must have communicated itself to the girl, as he realised that her trembling had abated, and her sobs had quietened to a soft sniffling noise, somewhat muffled by his waistcoat.

Seeing an opportunity, he pushed gently at her hands, causing her to sit back and fist away the remaining eyes. As soon as she did he rose in one fluid motion and all but pounced upon his mask.

He fastened it back in place and turned around, letting out a short gasp when he found her staring at him, her eyes wide with fright. Several seconds passed as he struggled to work out his next move. The sight of her, so small and miserable, had invoked a maelstrom of emotions in his chest, many of which he could not immediately identity.

At last he noticed that she was trembling again, and despite her palpable terror, he realised there was likely to be another reason for it.

"I - I shall run you a bath," he said, trying to summon more authority than he felt. "You must not catch another chill."

And he left without another word.

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, Erik stood in the bathroom of the Louis Philippe chamber, watching the water as it rushed into the tubs. He fought to gain control of his emotions. Now that she was no longer in immediate danger, anger had begun to gain the upper hand. Why had she done it? She had frightened him - never mind herself! Was he really so monstrous that she prefered drowning to another two days in his company? Two more days! And what had it got her? Drowning aside, the most she stood to gain from her little escapade would likely be another fortnight spent recuperating from some waterborne illness. And as for him, well, when not in attendance he would have to guard her bloody door in case she got it in mind to try again!<p>

It was almost a relief to feel something as simple as anger, but he forced himself back from the brink. He would not allow his temper to get the better of him. Not now. However inexplicable, however incredibly frustrating her actions, she was just a child, and he could not measure her capacity for cold logic against his own.

Taking several deep breaths, he turned off the taps (it would not do to run it so deep as to risk a second submersion) and returned to the bedroom to light a fire. He faltered slightly when he found her standing in the doorway.

"Your bath is ready," he said tersely. "You can start by taking off your boots, before you catch pneumonia."

The words betrayed more irritation than he would have liked, so he turned away and busied himself with the fire for several minutes, giving himself more time to calm down. He ignored the girl, although he could hear her shuffling about and stumbling in her effort to remove the offending footwear. Let her stumble, he thought, uncharitably. He had better things to do than play nursemaid to suicidal six year olds! Only when the fire was kindled did he risk another glance. She seemed to have understood the general purpose of his command as she had also removed her stockings and was now attempting to unfasten the strings of her apron. The combination of wet fabric and numb fingers was making this task quite impossible.

He watched her struggle for a moment longer before letting out an exasperated sigh. "Come here," he said, getting to his feet, "before you really do catch pneumonia." She approached gingerly, and his deft fingers made quick work of the strings. "I should think given the amount of lakewater you swallowed, pneumonia is probably the least of your worries. How do you feel about cholera, hmn? Turn around." He threw the apron to one side and began to unfasten the buttons that ran down the back of her dress. "Erik will have to make another tonic and-"

There was a mark on her back where the fabric had parted. His fingers paused for a moment. Thinking that she had injured herself when falling into the lake, he pushed the fabric further apart, his irritation swiftly fading as several pinkish welts were revealed. He knew exactly what had made them. Something curdled in the pit of his stomach as he noticed the pale fretwork of scars which lay beneath the welts. A belt had done this, and not through a single outburst of arbitrary violence. No. This was months, if not years of systematic abuse.

Madame Giry's parting words sprang immediately to mind. Perhaps there are worse monsters, she had said. Nausea filled his chest.

"Who did this?" he asked quietly.

The girl bowed her head, either unable, or most likely unwilling to answer the question. She was still trembling. His horrified gaze travelled from her ruined back to the ring of bruises that was still faintly visible around her neck. Tasting bile, he tugged the fabric back into place and stepped back as if it had burnt him.

"Never mind," he said, swallowing thickly. "Go - go and have your bath. I have some matters to attend to, but I will return presently. We can talk about it then. I - I trust you can manage from here?"

Needing no further encouragement, she scurried off to the bathroom.

Erik strode blankly in the opposite direction.

The nausea returned with a vengeance as he entered his quarters a few moments later. Lurching through the dressing room, he ripped off his mask and violently expelled the contents of his own stomach, a sour mingling of black tea and bile. It was several minutes before he had the strength to stand again. Madame Giry's words went round and round in his head. _Worse monsters._ Had she known? Why hadn't she told him? Resting his forehead against the cold porcelain of the toilet, he felt a different kind of queasiness fill the emptied cavern of his chest: a shame so thick it was almost suffocating.

Eventually he remembered that his clothes were wet. Struggling to his feet, he peeled them off and stood beneath the shower head, twisting the faucet until the scalding water seared into the furrows of his own scarred back.

Oh, yes. He knew all about the monsters out there. They had wrought him, after all.

He tried not to remember, but that part of his mind which cared little for his sanity, sensing weakness, launched its attack. The memories slammed into him. Kicks to his gut, laughter like rough sandpaper against his eardrums. He saw the world through the bars of a sideshow cage, saw a tent flap parting, felt the agonising twist of fear below his sternum. The memory stuttered forward. He felt a meaty hand grasp the back of his neck, and, straining savagely to break free, he saw the slow unravelling of a showman's whip. He braced himself against the tiles as if in readiness for the first blow. After seeing the ugly marks on the girl's neck he knew that he had earned it. Perhaps he had not been the one to beat her, but he had harmed her, and even though his act of violence had been confined to mere seconds, and had been done in ignorance of her identity, he could not see how that made him any less responsible.

The water ran tepid, cooling his mind and putting the memories quietly back in their boxes. He remained beneath it for a time, head bowed in supplication, letting it soothe what could not be absolved. As the minutes passed some kind of order returned to his thoughts. He could not take back what had happened in the third cellar, or expect forgiveness for the way he had behaved in the immediate aftermath, but there was something he could do.

He could try to set things right.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later he approached the girl's room, carrying a tea tray laden with pastries and another batch of the foul tonic he had administered during her illness. He hoped that the former would be accepted as an apology for the latter.<p>

As for the figs, they were a gambit of sorts.

"I have brought you some supper," he said.

He found her sitting by the hearth, knees drawn up to her chest and, he noted with faint disapproval, the hem of her nightdress not quite covering her toes. She sprang to attention when he spoke, just as she had done when he caught her playing the pianoforte. There had been something in her posture which troubled him then, and he realised now what it was: she expected him to strike her. As there was nothing in his mien, now or then, to suggest such an odious intention, he could only conclude that she was reacting to past experience.

Worse monsters, indeed.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "It is far too cold to be wandering about barefoot," he continued, nodding toward the bed. "Have you no more stockings? Erik will make another trip above, if you wish, and see what he can find in the costume department." As he spoke, he crossed the room and stood beside the bed, but he did not set the tray down immediately. Instead, he turned and looked back to measure her reaction. The girl had not moved an inch. "I am not angry with you," he said in a softer tone. "I was… worried before. You gave Erik quite a fright, and yourself, I shouldn't wonder. Please get back into bed."

After a moment's hesitation, she crept away from her place by the hearth, skirting around the perimeter of the room before climbing up on the other side of the bed, as far away from him as possible.

Nothing daunted, he set the tray down on top of the blankets and removed the silver cloche. "Here we are. A fine feast, no? I'm afraid I could not manage macarons and jellies, but Madame Giry assures me the eclairs are quite excellent, and there are figs, of course. I believe they are your favourite."

Far from taking the gambit, the girl refused to acknowledge them. Instead, she drew her knees back into her chest, looking smaller and more miserable than ever.

"You are not hungry?"

There was no answer; not that he had particularly expected one. He hovered awkwardly for moment, wishing there were something he could say, some incantation to conjure trust, but he knew it was futile. It had been a ridiculous to even try. He let out a heavy sigh and walked over to the spot where the girl had stood a few moments before, staring hollowly into the flames.

"I know you are frightened," he said, exhaustion lacing his words. "I know you have seen what lies beneath this mask, and I believe you remember quite well what happened on the night I found you in the cellar. Nothing can excuse what I did then, or in the days that followed. I will not ask for your forgiveness. I assume you believe that you are still a prisoner here and that is why you tried to escape? That is far from the truth. Words are inadequate, I know, but if you could find a way to bear it for two more days, I promise - no, I do not promise." He turned slightly but did not quite look back at her, addressing instead a speck of lint on his left shoulder. "I will leave you."

The girl murmured something as he went to the door, the words too low and indistinct for even his keen hearing to distinguish. He paused on the threshold.

"What was that?"

"Please," she said plaintively, her voice little more than a whisper, "I'm sorry about the figs. Please don't send me away."

Erik turned with a frown, the floor seeming to shift beneath his feet. "You think I am angry about the figs?"

"Aren't you?"

"No."

There was a long silence, filled only by the steady crackle of the fire. Erik stared at the girl in confusion as he tried to process the words that had followed her unwanted apology. Please don't me away. She seemed to implying that she wished to stay, which was absurd, and made little sense in the context of her escape attempt.

The poor thing was probably concussed.

A movement from the bed caught his attention; the girl had reached out for one of the figs, cradling it in her small hands like it was something fragile and precious. "Grandmother used to buy them from the market sometimes," she said softly. "There was a fig tree in the garden of the house where she grew up. In the olden days, I mean. She used to tell me stories. And when she got too sick to go to the market she used to send me instead, until… until he came back."

He stepped a little closer. "Who?"

"Father," she said dully. "At least, that's what Grandmother called him. He was away for a long time. I don't remember him before, but when he came back he said there wasn't money to waste on figs. Grandmother was very sick. She... she went to heaven with Maman, and Father said I had to sell the matches then, but people don't always want to buy matches. I tried, I really tried, but I never sold enough and he used to… he said it was my fault that Maman died but I don't remember what I did wrong. He was so angry all the time." She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears, and he felt a queer impulse to wipe them away. "I think I'm very wicked," she whispered.

Erik settled for sitting down on the edge of the bed. "You are not wicked," he assured her, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Now tell me, how did you come to be in the cellar that night? It was not the first time..."

"No," she admitted.

He waited. A tear spilled down her cheek and she fisted it away.

"There were lots of times," she said. "The first time it was snowing and I was looking for somewhere to sleep and there was a broken window. I didn't mean to steal the figs! I mean, I know I took them, but I left some matches in their place. I know that's not the same as proper money but Grandmother said... she said-"

"Go on," he urged.

"She said that she'd send an a-angel," she stuttered, "but that angels don't always have wings and wear white dresses like they do in church. They might not look how you think, that's what she said. You have to look hard and see things in different ways. And I waited and I waited but nobody came!" She was cring openly now. "And then I found the figs and I thought, maybe, and then I saw you… and I thought… I thought you… you…" Unable to continue, she buried her head in her knees and began to sob.

Not for the first time, Erik wondered if he was the punchline of some grand celestial joke. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and nudged her shoulder gently. "Here," he said, taking the fig in exchange for the handkerchief and waiting until she had blown her nose before he continued. "You thought I was an angel, didn't you?"

Her cheeks, already flushed from crying, grew pinker. "It's silly," she sniffed.

"No more than lightening striking the same spot twice," he quipped; she looked at him in confusion, and he shook his head. "I am sorry to disappoint you. As you can see, I am no more an angel than I am an opera ghost. I am simply Erik."

She nodded, looking down at the crumpled handkerchief he had given her.

"Now," he said kindly, "you really should try and get some more sleep. It has been a peculiar night for both of us, I think." He fussed a little with the blankets, pulling them up to her waist and repositioning the tray. "Will you drink the tonic first? I know it tastes vile, but-"

"Can I stay?"

"Hmn?"

"I want to stay here," she said.

"With me?" He laughed nervously. "I'm afraid Erik would make a very poor substitute for the family Madame Giry has found you. He has a terrible temper, you know. Don't you want to live on a farm in the countryside like Little Lotte and hear the birds sing every morning? Why, there might even be a fig tree in the garden..."

"I like it with you," she persisted. "It's safe here. No-one can… no-one can find us, can they?"

"No, but-"

"Please? I promise I'll be good."

"That is not what I…" He broke off; she was looking at him again, beseechingly, with those wide brown eyes, and he felt some small measure of resistance snapping within his chest. She wanted a place of safety. A home. All things he had once been denied. He was now in a position to provide those things and he found him powerless to refuse. "Of course you may stay," he said, "if that is truly is what you wish. I only wanted you to know that-"

In a flash she was upon him again, although Erik's reaction was slightly quicker this time, and he was able to keep the tea tray from upturning as she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. He bore the affection with a stoicism other men reserved for the gallows.

"There now," he murmured, too stunned to say anything else.

* * *

><p>She was asleep when he returned to collect the tray a short while later. The tonic had been drunk and he smiled on seeing that her appetite had recovered enough to demolish the eclairs, although she had left the figs untouched. He wondered at that. Seeing the blankets once more in disarray, he drew them up beneath her chin, then moved away to bank the fire. Before he left he watched her for a time, marvelling at how peacefully she slept. He crept away with an odd feeling of warmth that had nothing to do with the cosiness of the room.<p>

It was still quite early, but he was too perturbed by the night's events to think of sleeping himself, and so, recalling some errant comment about her stockings, he made his way up through the cellars with the intention of collecting a few more supplies before she awoke.

His feet had other ideas. They led him up along the catwalks and into the cupola, where the chandelier had been drawn for cleaning. He slipped past it and through the little door that led out onto the roof, proceeding quietly along the avenues of zinc and iron. There was no need to climb statues this time. He paused beside a little stone pegasus, not far from from the spot where, almost a year ago, Christine had told her erstwhile fiance of the horror she had been forced to endure in Erik's domain.

_Hospitality_, he would have called it, but there seemed little point clinging to old bitterness.

In fact he felt quite detached from the whole episode as he gazed out across the grey rooftops of the city. Paris was shrouded in a soft, crepuscular light, and he was quite sure that he appeared as little more than a shadow, although there was no reason to seek cover. Not a soul stirred in the streets below.

Alone with his thoughts, he settled down to consider his current predicament.

He had told the girl that she could stay...

For how long, he wondered? Long enough to send word to Madame Giry that a new family was no longer required? It seemed that way. He still did not quite understand why she had been so horrified by the prospect of being adopted that she been willing to risk her life to escape it. Perhaps it was the unknown she feared. He might be an unlikely candidate, but he was familiar, and as extraordinary as it seemed, she apparently trusted him. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense that she would baulk at being placed in the hands of another who might, for all she knew, turn out to be as brutish as her father.

Or perhaps the shock of everything she had been through had simply turned her brain. They would, in that event, make a fine pair.

In that moment it occurred to him that he would now be obliged to step into the role of a parent. He pondered the idea. It was not an altogether unpleasant prospect. He had grown fond of the odd little thing, and the idea that she liked him in return seemed as tinder to the vibrant flame that had begun to flicker within his breast.

Not that he was deluded enough to think that she would wish to stay with him forever. Children grew up, he understood that. Sooner or later she would want to leave the darkness and venture out into a world that no longer seemed full of danger, and when that day came he would not stand in her way.

But for now, she needed him.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the Madeleine's great bell striking the hour. Soon, the bells of a dozen other churches had joined this chiming symphony, which Erik thought quite beautiful; but he did not linger. Another clock was striking, in a strange little parlour far below the opera house, and he did not want the girl to wake and find herself alone.

And so the shadow disappeared, as the first skeins of sunlight began to appear in the sky, glinting off Apollo's Lyre.


End file.
